Conversations
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. Lassiet. Deal with it. Carlton & Juliet can only talk to themselves so long before they have to call in the big guns to understand their partnership, friendship, and more.
1. Chapter 1: Prank No More

**Disclaimer**: not only do I not claim any rights to _**psych**_, but 'they' would laugh at me if I did  
**Rating: T  
****Summary:** Lassiet. Deal with it. Carlton & Juliet can only talk to themselves so long before they have to call in the big guns to understand their partnership, friendship, and more. _Note: The first third of this chapter was previously posted as a story called Prank No More;__ the first line was taken from the USA Network ****__psych________ slumber party skit where Lassiter bursts in to stop Shawn from making the harassing and illegal prank calls_******_______._**

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**. . . .**

**. . .**

"It's a slumber party. You _have_ to have crank calls."

She said it as if there were no simpler concept in the world.

Carlton looked at her, looked at the asshat next to her, looked at Guster—normally more likely to agree with the concept of 'right' and 'decent'—and understood.

What he understood was this: he was finished.

He lowered his weapon and said as calmly as he could manage, "It's _illegal_. It's fraud against the business owners and harassment against a citizen and officer of the law."

Spencer was grinning; Juliet looked complacent, and Guster looked… well, not so complacent, but still secure in the safety of his group.

"But it's fun, Lassie," Spencer said. "And geez, you don't _have_ to answer the phone or the door, do you? That you never learn is part of _why_ it's so much fun."

"Wrong, Spencer, because you keep forgetting I'm a cop, and unless I'm on official leave, I'm on duty 24/7, so I _do_ have to answer my phone every time it rings, and I _do_ have to answer my door. I can't even block your number because you're a damn consultant."

The grin had never left the asshat's face. "That's yet _another_ reason why it's fun for everyone."

Breathing deeply, Carlton again did his best to sound calm. "Okay. Then here's how it is. If you ever prank call me again, I will begin harassment charges against you. I will get a court order to comb through your phone records, I will get the incoming call records of the various businesses who've sent me all manner of crap thanks to you, and then we'll see if you still think it's fun."

Juliet sighed, rolling her eyes ever-so-slightly.

Spencer chuckled. "So much work, so little purpose."

"I will also," he said more slowly, "name O'Hara as an accessory."

That got her attention; Spencer's too. She sat up and stared at him. "_What_?"

Spencer protested, "Lassie, come on."

"Well, she's sitting right there, isn't she? She just admitted she doesn't think it's any big deal for you to harass me and commit fraud, didn't she? For all I know, she's been part of this from the beginning."

Her mouth dropped open, and she stood up. "Carlton, that's ridiculous. You know I haven't—"

They were all on their feet now. Guster said, "Lassiter, Juliet never made any calls to you, and just for the record, I don't want to go to jail."

"Lassie, it's just for fun. You don't have to be like this, and for damn sure you don't have to drag Jules into it."

She was still staring at Carlton, but for once he was able to look away unscathed. "No, Spencer. _ You_ did."

"Come on, man, it's a slumber party, and—"

"Carlton, you can't be serious!" She stepped around the coffee table to come closer to him, ridiculously appealing with her pigtails despite the shock and anger in her expression.

"O'Hara, I don't know else to stop this. It's been going on for years, you know it's been going on for years, it looks to me like you've either condoned it or been part of it, and if that fact is going to help me stop the harassment, so be it." He focused his gaze on Spencer, who was looking a bit slack-jawed. "So that's how it is. If you want to keep having fun at the expense of others, you'll do so at the risk of tarnishing O'Hara's otherwise pristine record."

"You would not actually do that to me, Carlton." It was almost a whisper.

"You're talking to the wrong person," he said flatly. Pointing at Spencer, he savagely re-holstered his weapon and strode out of the apartment over the protests of Juliet and her pajama-clad idiot friends.

He was nearly to his Fusion when she caught up with him, racing across the grass in her fuzzy slippers. "Carlton, stop!"

Carlton steeled himself and turned.

"What the hell is going on? Why would you say such a thing?"

"Why the hell would you let him do this to me year after year?"

"I don't _let_ him do anything! He doesn't listen to me; you know that!"

"You're a cop. You know the law. And once upon a time you were my friend, too, and friends don't let this crap go on."

She took a breath, wounded and clearly getting pissed off. "I _am_ your friend. And I have not been sitting by while he prank calls you. You know better."

"Do I? Honestly, O'Hara, I don't know what I know anymore. I've seen you tolerate all kinds of idiocy and disrespect from Spencer, and it sure looks to me like you were in the middle of things tonight."

"Okay, look, I'm not proud of that, but—it was just one night, Carlton, please. One stupid night with stupid friends doing stupid things. You can't hold me responsible for his behavior—you know him!"

He clenched his jaw. "I don't hold you responsible for his behavior. I hold you responsible for _yours_. I know I don't matter to them, and I suspect I no longer matter to you, but This. Stops. Tonight. I get so much as a Jehovah's witness at my door on a Sunday morning, your boyfriend's going to need a lawyer."

She blocked his path to the door of his car, furious. "You know damn well you matter to me! How can you say that?"

Carlton pointed to the building. "Because of what I saw in there. Because of every damn eye-roll I've seen for the past year. Because it's _obvious_, O'Hara, and no matter what Spencer may spout to the world, I am _not_ stupid. What I _am_ is damn tired. What I've _got_ is a partner who thinks I'm fair game for Spencer's antics."

"Carlton, no," she whispered, and there was a tear on her cheek.

"Take the warning back to Spencer. I know he doesn't give a rat's ass about me or the people he rips off, but if he cares about you at all, he'll find a new damned target. Or maybe, _maybe_ he'll just grow the hell up."

He brushed by her and got in the car, and she was still standing on the lawn looking helpless as he drove off.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet walked slowly back inside, where Shawn and Gus were flipping through Yellow Pages ads. She felt sick and shaky.

"I didn't even know they still made phone books," Shawn marveled.

"Shawn, they get put on your doorstep every year. What did you think they were?"

"Pre-recycled paper?" He glanced up at Juliet. "Lassie storm off okay?"

Juliet looked at him, trying to see him. Trying to _see_ him, not just through the mist still blurring her vision, but through the time they'd spent together. Trying to figure out where she'd gone so wrong.

Trying to figure out why Carlton's anger hurt so much, and why she felt she'd betrayed him even more than he clearly believed she had.

"How often do you prank call him?"

His attention was back on the ads. "Ooh, look, they'll deliver a coffin right to his door."

"Shawn," she repeated, chilled. "How often do you prank call Carlton?"

"Hardly ever. Maybe two, three times a year." Still, his gaze was on the ads.

Juliet pinned Gus in place with a single look. "Gus?"

"More like two, three times a month," he admitted.

Shawn shrugged. "I've heard it both ways."

"And how often do you have things sent to him?"

He yawned. "Maybe two, three times a year. Jules, come on. It's just for fun. Practically a victimless crime. Non-crime. It's a victimless non-crime."

Again, she focused on Gus, and this time she didn't even have to say his name before he caved in.

"At least… once a month. Uh, maybe twice. But only if it has 31 days."

Juliet dropped into the armchair, holding herself tight.

"Jules, relax. He's not going through with it. Gus! Let's look up bubble wrap!"

"He should," she muttered.

"What, to teach me a lesson? That never works." He reached over for the bowl of popcorn, highly amused.

Gus was nodding sagely.

She clarified. "No, to teach _me_ a lesson." Rising, she paced the room, because suddenly she was full of nervous energy, full of the need to be doing something, if only to compete with the all-out action going on in her brain.

"What are you talking about? You don't need to learn any lesson. Lassie would never do anything to hurt your career. Not after he screwed up his _last_ partner's career."

Spinning around to glare at him, she spat out, "As I heard it, you had a lot to do with that."

Shawn blinked. "Well. I may have…brought it to _light_, but what he and Lucinda were doing in the _dark_ has a lot more to do with it, don't you think?"

Gus nodded again, but looked thoughtful. "Still, Juliet has a point, Shawn. You did expose something they might have been planning to end anyway. For all you know it was a one-time thing they both regretted, and you kinda blew away their chance to make it right."

"Make it right," Shawn repeated mockingly. "Guy was _married_, dude. There's no making it right."

"He was _separated_. He'd been separated and on his own for close to two years. You told me that yourself!" She stalked over to him, only the coffee table stopping her from slugging him outright.

His hazel gaze was shrewd. "You think Victoria would have thought it was 'okay' because they were separated?"

"At that point, if she were sane, yes! I do!"

He grinned. "And if you'd been his partner then, would you have fallen for the 'oh I'm so sad and lonely and separated' line he probably used on—" He stopped speaking abruptly when she leaned over and pushed up against the underside of the bowl, dousing him liberally in popcorn.

Gus got up and moved a safe distance away.

"Carlton is not that kind of man, and you _know_ he's not that kind of man. You should be ashamed of yourself."

He stood up, shaking popcorn off himself as if he were a shaggy wet dog coming in from the rain. "_I _never cheated on anyone, Jules."

Gus cleared his throat.

Juliet stared at him and then at Shawn.

Shawn looked uncomfortable. "You can't count anything I did under the age of nineteen."

Gus cleared his throat again.

"Or twenty two and three quarters, and come on, man, we'd only been dating a week and that waitress was freaking hot!"

"Stop it!" Juliet commanded. "I don't care and that's not the point. I want you to stop prank calling Carlton."

"Jules…" He flicked one last bit of popcorn off his sleeve. "I told you. Lassie is never going to do anything to jeopardize your career."

"He _was_ pretty angry," Gus pointed out reasonably.

"He won't do it." Shawn was certain.

She drew in a breath. "But you would?"

"I would what?"

"You would jeopardize my career?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You would risk my professional reputation against your need to continue this juvenile and illegal campaign against my partner?"

"Hey! Weren't you sitting right beside me when we made those calls ninety minutes ago?"

She flushed. "I was, but I was under the influence of stupid, and besides, I had no idea you'd been harassing him so long. And you didn't answer my question, Shawn. Are you so sure he's going to shield me that you'd take the risk just so you can go on sending him pizzas and egg rolls and balloons?"

"Jules," he said again. "There is no risk to take."

Truth was, she knew he was right: she knew Carlton wouldn't do that to her…

… well, he _probably_ wouldn't.

"I'm glad you're confident, but let's look at the other angle. It _is_ illegal. And it _is_ defrauding the vendors you've called over the years, as well as obvious harassment against Carlton. So as your girlfriend, I am requesting that you stop doing these things. As a police officer, I'm _demanding_ it."

He met her gaze, clearly trying to suss out his options.

"Either one of those, Shawn, should convince you to agree. But if you had any brains, the first one would be enough."

She began collecting her belongings—jacket, holster, common sense—and he followed her around the room babbling words she didn't even try to understand while Gus cautiously started cleaning up the popcorn mess.

"Don't leave, Jules. Please."

Juliet stopped and looked at him, again bewildered at herself and her choices over the past year. "It's late."

"It's a slumber party—it's _supposed_ to be late! We haven't even frozen your bra yet!"

"Come on, son," Gus muttered.

"Are you going to stop harassing Carlton?" she demanded, close enough to see actual real uncertainty in Shawn's eyes.

He hesitated.

This was even more annoying. "Really? You have to think it over?"

"No! No, I don't have to think it over." Shawn sighed. "Okay. You win. No more prank calls to Lassie. I swear. In front of you and Gus, and you know he's my conscience."

"He shouldn't have to be." Beyond him, she could see Gus mouthing the phrase '_you know that's right_.'

"Just be glad he is, sweetheart." He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Now put your stuff down and let's pick out a nice movie to watch."

"No, I'm going home." She zipped up her jacket and turned away, hearing his 'tsk' of disapproval and asking herself how in the _hell_ to make this up to Carlton.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He was exhausted and wished for sleep.

But it wouldn't come, damn it; it had tantalized him ever since he got home from Spencer's at two a.m., never getting quite close enough for him to sink into what should have been its comforting arms.

_Bastard_ sleep.

So he got up at what amounted to the usual time, despite it being Sunday morning, and dressed for a jog he was in no shape to take. He'd stop on the way back and reward himself with a pastry to go with the eighteen coffees he planned to guzzle.

When he pushed the doors of Prospect Gardens open and faced the pale morning light, the first thing he saw was Juliet, bundled up in a long jacket, sitting on the bench across the street.

She looked pretty close to crap, not that this detracted from her general prettiness. Her eyes were huge and her face drawn and she got up when he crossed the street, her hands shoved deep in her pockets.

"Carlton, I—"

He interrupted. "O'Hara, don't. I got home last night and realized I overreacted. You were right; I'd never drag you down with Spencer."

He'd believed it when he said so in front of the asshat, but as soon as he stepped inside his condo he understood he simply _couldn't_.

Yet Juliet didn't look relieved. She probably didn't trust him; he'd been pretty harsh.

He tried again. "It doesn't mean I won't go after him if he does it again, and it doesn't mean you might not get caught in the crossfire if he wants to put you there, but I promise I will never intentionally—"

"Carlton, wait." She sighed. "I came here to apologize. I didn't think you'd let me in at four a.m. so I've been waiting. I figured you'd go for a run."

"You don't have to apologize for what he does." He frowned. "You've been waiting out here for two hours?"

Juliet brushed a stray curl—she'd lost the pigtails—behind her ear. "I wanted to see you in person. I wanted to tell you I'm sorry I've given you the impression you don't matter to me. You do matter. You're my partner and my closest friend and I know I have… _not_ been that for you. Not for a long time. And I'm sorry."

He felt a squeezing in his chest at the haunted look in her eyes. "You don't…"

"I let my personal relationship get in the way of _our_ relationship, one that's incredibly important to me. I'm sorry I've taken such risks with it and I hope you can forgive me and give me another chance."

"O'Hara," he said weakly. He had not been prepared for this at all. He thought they'd have an icy week or two until they both thawed enough to get some real work done. He thought Spencer would be around gloating and he'd made plans for how quickly he could have the little bastard picked up for harassment and whether that would be the final blow to his partnership with Juliet.

It had never occurred to him she would be waiting out here in the cold morning light, apologizing with obvious sincerity.

"Please," she whispered. "Carlton."

"Hell," he began gruffly, and Juliet beamed and threw her arms around him in a kamikaze hug which nearly bowled him over.

"Thanks." It was muffled against his chest, and he allowed his arms to encircle her briefly. "You won't regret it, I promise."

"If you're crying on my new t-shirt, I already regret it."

Juliet laughed and stepped back, and he was sorry to lose the warmth and softness of her. "I wasn't crying yet, and that is _not_ a new t-shirt."

"Don't cry at all," he advised her. _I'm really not worth it_.

Her blue eyes were suspiciously bright all the same. "I told Shawn to lay off. If he doesn't, I will stand right beside you when it's time to bring him in. I feel so stupid about last night. You have no idea."

Carlton didn't know what to say to her. He couldn't leap from emotion to emotion, not like this.

"We'll get back." She said it confidently. "If you give me a chance we'll get back."

It wasn't all on her, and he couldn't let her think so. "I should have given you a chance last night."

Juliet smiled. "You did. You didn't shoot Shawn, you told me off, and you brought me back to reality in the process."

He rubbed his face hard. "This is a crazy conversation for six a.m. on a Sunday morning."

"Maybe, but you know what fixes crazy? Breakfast. Skip your run, partner. Let's walk down to the Omletorium and have breakfast."

Carlton studied her, bemused. She was as tired as he was, with shadows under her eyes; her hair was in tangles and her clothes rumpled, but she smiled at him and seemed as fresh and beautiful as she did every damn day of his life.

"Beats licensed therapy any day," she prodded, her smile sincere.

Yeah. Well.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

He felt cautiously optimistic. "Eggs it is… partner."

She beamed, and he gladly kept to her pace down the sidewalk, but in the back of his mind, he had a feeling it simply couldn't be this easy.

Maybe it _shouldn't_ be, either.

Maybe, he thought with a mix of dread and certainty, it was time to lift up the rock and see exactly what lay underneath.

**. . . . .**

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_[A/N: While I will post Ch2 tomorrow, I will __**NOT**__ be updating daily after that. Since only about three people admit to reading my l'il Lassiets, I'm sure there'll be nooooo complaints!]_


	2. Chapter 2: Discovery

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was about to shut down her laptop for the day when her cell rang, and she was pleased to see Carlton's name on the screen.

He had left this morning for a law enforcement conference where he'd be one of the speakers, his topic centered on in-department training of new Academy graduates. It was quite a nice little notch in his resume, although he'd groused about having to spend four nights in Sacramento.

"What's up, partner?"

"O'Hara, I need a favor. Kind of a big one."

"I'm not doing all your paperwork while you're away," she said cheerfully.

He snorted. "That wouldn't be a 'favor.' It'd be more on the lines of donating a kidney."

"Ironically, _that_ I would do."

His prep for the conference had caused him to fall behind on his monthly reports, a failing Chief Vick had overlooked for the short term because his success at the conference would reflect well on her entire station. Juliet would have helped, but had landed some rather complex cases which made it impossible, and she felt guilty about it as a reflex, because she was still feeling a little guilty about the past year despite considerable improvements in the past three months.

Carlton said, "Interesting," with an obvious smile, one she could feel if not see. "This is more mundane. I left my laptop at home."

"Oh no… wait. Did you want me to drive it up there?"

"No," he said at once. "Nothing like that. I'd just like you to go to my condo, turn on the laptop and find and email me the presentation and some other files. I borrowed a laptop from the hotel so all I need is the data."

Much better, though a 'free' trip to Sacramento wouldn't be so bad, and Carlton outside of work—even anxious about a big presentation—was always a treat: less tense, less grumpy.

"That's not really on the same level as a kidney, you know."

"Count your blessings. So, can you…" He cleared his throat. "Is Vick still there?"

A touch uncomfortable now. "Yep. I'll call you from the condo in a little bit, okay?"

"Thanks, O'Hara. I owe you bigtime."

Not really, she thought grimly, and went down the hall to the Chief's office, where she found Karen Vick packing up for the day.

"Detective, I certainly hope that whatever you need won't take more than the thirty seconds remaining before I go home to my family?"

"It shouldn't. I, um, just have to run by Carlton's condo to send him the presentation info from his laptop."

Karen frowned, partly distracted by shutting down her own laptop. "And you're telling me this because you want me to worry about his presentation bombing?"

"No." She calmed herself, disturbed that she was so disturbed. "I need your key to his place."

Karen's dark brown gaze focused on her now. "You don't have a key?"

_Uh-oh. _"_You_ don't have one?"

"Yes, I have one. But I thought mine was the backup to the backup. Where's yours?"

Juliet felt a little sick. "Um…"

"Because you _used_ to have one, I know that. Just like he has a backup key to your place. Right?"

"Yes, of course he does." Of course he did. He didn't have to worry about whether she trusted _him_.

"Then…?"

When Karen was interested in an answer, she didn't give up her query until she got it. Sometimes she accomplished this quest with only a look… a look exactly like the one she was giving Juliet right now.

Juliet gave up and sank into the chair, and with a sigh, Karen sat down in hers, but kept her hand on her shoulder bag to make it clear she really _wasn't_ staying very long.

"A few months ago Shawn needed to pick up some DVDs from my apartment. We were knee-deep in work here, so I gave him my key ring and made him promise to bring it right back."

Karen said nothing, but her expression was all skepticism.

"He did… I mean, it was a couple of hours, but he did bring it back. The problem was he made a kind of… snide comment in front of Carlton about the fact that I had his condo key." She swallowed. "He _implied_ he'd taken the time to go over there and snoop around."

"I see where this is going," Karen said flatly. "_Did_ he snoop?"

"Honestly, I just don't know. Needless to say, Carlton was livid, and immediately changed his locks."

"Can't blame him for that."

"I don't."

She was still upset with Shawn about it, and now, after the prank call smackdown three months back, it felt like one more way she'd let Carlton down. "It took me a few weeks to realize he'd never given me the new spare, and I think the only reason he told me was so I'd know you had it now."

Shaking her head slightly, Karen opened her drawer and fished out an envelope from which she drew a key. "Do you think he blames you?"

"No." Juliet hesitated. "Not specifically, no. But he can't trust Shawn, and I'm with Shawn, so…. Anyway, I feel terrible about it. I wanted to punch Shawn in the nose that day."

"Why didn't you?" Her arched eyebrow suggested she wasn't entirely kidding, as she slid the key across the desk.

"I'm supposed to use my powers for good," Juliet said dryly, taking the key as she stood up. "Thanks. I'll bring it back to you tomorrow, and Shawn will never know it's in my possession, I swear."

"I'm not the one you should be swearing to, O'Hara." Vick rose, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "You picked a pretty dark horse in Spencer, and there's a price to be paid for that."

This she already knew, because she'd been paying quite awhile.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton's condo was dim and cool, and she didn't feel like turning on the lights.

Cool like Carlton, she thought, locking the door behind her because he'd want it that way and because frankly she didn't trust Shawn not to turn up and ruin everything (_and that is a fine way to think of the man you're dating_).

Getting out her phone, she called her partner, who answered midway through the first ring.

"O'Hara. You ready?"

"Yep. Where'd you stash the laptop?"

"Where I wouldn't miss it on my way out this morning," he said dryly. "The middle of the dining room table."

Laughing, she spotted the offending item and sat down at the table to open and start it up. "Do I need a password to log in?"

He hesitated. She was about to assure him he could trust her to keep it secret when he said, "No. I figured as many times as Spencer's hacked into it at work, I should save myself the trouble."

Her heart sank. _Damn Shawn. Damn him!_ "I'm sorry, Carlton."

"Not your fault." He was brisk now, and told her where she could find the PowerPoint presentation, asking her to open it up and make sure it was functional.

She knew it would be—Carlton took this sort of thing very seriously—and then he asked her to find a few backup documents just in case. Most of them were named "Stats" or "Statistics," with dates, and he talked her through to find the folder where they were stored.

"Got it. Hang on while I open up the browser to get to my email."

He said evenly, "Just use mine."

Now it was her turn to hesitate. It had to be hard enough for him to let her into the laptop—but to open his email program? That was almost… too _much_ trust, after the past year, and she felt she needed to show him she respected his privacy and the boundaries all adults should have with each other.

"It's okay—I already have the page up." She swiftly keyed in her login and password and attached the PowerPoint and all the files starting with 'stat.' "Emailing it now. I CCed it to myself to have at home, in case any of them don't open for you later."

"Thanks. Let me see if they come through?"

She said yes, and asked him about the weather up there, and felt suddenly that he was so much further away than merely Sacramento. A completely unexpected pang of missing him struck her, and maybe that wasn't so unusual: they did spend countless hours together daily.

After a minute, Carlton confirmed that the files arrived successfully. He thanked her with a warmth she was also unprepared for. "I owe you, Juliet."

"Please; this was easy. You might have wanted me to drive six hours up there. Emailing you some files is nothing!"

_He called me Juliet. _

So rare was that—so rare—that she couldn't even hear what he said next, except it sounded like more gratitude, so she made an appropriate response without having any idea what she was even saying.

"Let me know how it goes," she did manage. "And buy me a postcard."

He said he would, which meant he _would_, and before he asked, she assured him she'd lock up and get the key back to Chief Vick in the morning.

With almost no pause, Carlton said, "Keep it."

Why did that make her heart thud?

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

That was all; just 'yes.'

"Carlton…"

"O'Hara, it was never about not trusting _you_. You know that, right?"

"Guilt by association," she murmured.

"Maybe. Besides, I'm sure he's rifled through Vick's desk more than once over the years."

She was about to deny it—surely Shawn would not be so _effing_ _stupid_—when she remembered one of their early conversations: he'd called her from Karen's office while sitting in her chair and openly reading her day planner. She remembered another time when she caught him coming out having just questioned a witness in a case he wasn't supposed to be involved in, misrepresenting himself as a cop to do so.

The sick-with-dread feeling she'd become all too familiar with lately rose up and took her breath away for a moment.

_You have been so stupid._

"Let's hope not. I'll take good care of your key, Carlton. And I'll do what I can to corral Shawn."

"Lotsa luck," he said mildly. "Thanks again for doing this. I really do owe you. Coffee for two weeks and a box of ammo."

Juliet laughed, feeling better suddenly. "Deal. Call me tomorrow after the presentation, okay?"

He agreed, and Juliet turned off his laptop and went home to ponder the greater mysteries of herself and her choice of boyfriend.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was midnight when she woke… for the second time. Sleep was no friend of hers tonight.

She still felt uneasy. She felt as if bits of her life were shifting around her to reveal things she didn't want to see, about herself and about her relationship with Shawn, and ultimately about her relationship with Carlton: what it had been, and what it was now.

Truly, they _had_ come back from the edge of disaster created on Prank Call night. She was making every effort to rebuild his faith in her—to be worthy of it—but there was still a way to go. Having to ask Karen Vick for the condo key; having to explain why she'd lost her right to it—having to lay out for another person the truth that she had no influence on her boyfriend, who was quite often, for lack of a better word, a jerk—that had been hard. Embarrassing. Distressing.

She knew she wasn't to blame for Shawn's actions and she knew Carlton would agree. But she _was_ still The Girlfriend.

Of a jerk.

Willingly.

So what did that say about her? And did others see her the way she was more frequently seeing herself?

Restless, she rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. While the kettle was heating, she turned on her laptop to check her mail, since sleep was standoffish.

The files she'd CCed to her account were sitting in her inbox, and she downloaded them to have a look. Carlton hadn't had much chance to show her what he'd been working on for the conference, but the man definitely knew how to organize a PowerPoint, and she was curious to see the finished product.

She was ready for a second cup of tea before she finished scrolling through the presentation—crisp, detailed, informative—but instead of more tea she took a look at the other files she'd emailed him.

With names like _Statistics_2012_, _StatsExpl_2011_, and _StatsTrainEval_, she was able to figure out their contents from their names (mostly), but _Statler_ wasn't immediately clear so she opened that one.

It was a text file, or a chat log, and she wondered if it was something to do with one of the rookies but… but no. It was something else entirely.

_StatlerPsyD: We recommend logging so you can review the conversation later.  
CL: It's on. I should tell you up front that I look at you people as more dangerous than helpful in my line of work.  
StatlerPsyD: I appreciate your candor. Why dangerous, exactly?  
CL: Because you can keep a man from doing the job he's best suited for. A simple flick of the pen and a good cop's career is finished.  
StatlerPsyD: Do you think that's their intention?  
CL: No. But it can be the result.  
StatlerPsyD: Then why are you consulting me?  
CL: Because you can't directly affect my career, and I know I need to talk to someone._

Juliet let out a breath, and knew she had to stop reading right now.

The lines of text were date-stamped six weeks ago, and this was none of her business.

_StatlerPsyD: Let's get some background first about your work and your life. Just the highlights about who you think you are.  
CL: A detective, first and foremost. Head of the squad in my station and damn proud of it. Divorced five years now. No kids. No pets. Wouldn't mind a dog if I could train it to take down squirrels.  
StatlerPsyD: OK. Is your divorce related to your job?  
CL: More to our lack of compatibility. I hung on too long but it was no good. Otherwise no personal life to speak of and that's okay.  
StatlerPsyD: Is it?  
CL: It's what I have. Work and a few outside interests, most of which relate somehow to the job.  
StatlerPsyD: Is your question today about your relationships or your work or…?_

Juliet swallowed, and started to close the file. She had no right to read this, and she needed to delete the file—a file he'd be horrified to think was in her hands, no matter how much he probably did trust her—and forget everything.

_CL: It's about my partner._

Her fingers went numb. Forget closing the file.

_StatlerPsyD: Your work partner?  
CL: Yes. Seven years. We're nothing alike. She's a hell of a lot nicer than I am, but we've managed to ride out our differences all this time.  
StatlerPsyD: Why do you say you're not nice?  
CL: If you knew me, you wouldn't have to ask. I'm not warm and fuzzy. I like rules and structure and I don't do well with disorder and gray areas when it comes to doing my job. I don't want to be coddled or to coddle and I expect people to uphold my high standards for law enforcement.  
StatlerPsyD: Is your partner like you?  
CL: She has the high standards but she works better with people. She believes you can get further with a kind word and a gun; I only need the gun.  
StatlerPsyD: That's very amusing. Is there anything more personal between you?_

Really. Stop Reading This Now.

Juliet heard the voice in her head, and the voice spoke true despite its panicky timbre, and she resolutely moved the cursor toward the X button to close the file.

Yet her traitorous, helpless gaze was still locked to the screen.

_StatlerPsyD: CL? Is that a difficult question?  
CL: No. There's nothing personal between us.  
StatlerPsyD: I've worked with cops before. I understand the depth of connection between partners.  
CL: We have that.  
StatlerPsyD: And?  
CL: That's all.  
StatlerPsyD: "All" is pretty vague.  
CL: We're partners. The problem is trust._

The familiar sick feeling rose again.

_StatlerPsyD: Something happened to make you question whether you should trust her?  
CL: No. I trust her completely. There's only been one time in seven years when she acted in a way to make me question my trust in her._

And Juliet knew exactly what it was. She remembered the anger and the frustration and her eventual profound understanding that he was right the whole time: concealing her relationship with Shawn, simply because it _was_ Shawn, had been grossly unfair to Carlton.

_StatlerPsyD: Then…?  
CL: But I don't think she trusts me anymore, and that's why I'm here. I need to know how I can get past knowing her trust is gone. I need to know if there's a way to keep the partnership alive, or whether I should give it up._

Juliet was appalled and confused. Not trust him? He was the rock of her life: why the hell would he think she didn't trust him? Her heart was pounding and she felt cold from head to toe.

_StatlerPsyD: Giving up a seven-year partnership is a big thing. Have you talked to her about this issue?  
CL: No, and I won't unless I have to.  
StatlerPsyD: OK. Well, obviously every case is different, and circumstances do matter. Can you explain why you think she doesn't trust you?  
CL: Will there be a warning before my credit card maxes out?  
StatlerPsyD: _:-)_ Say what you are able to say.  
CL: We had a fight a couple weeks ago. Bad one. Her boyfriend is the kind of guy who has to be in everyone's business, and he really likes being in mine. Prankster, no respect for personal space or boundaries. Asshat, really.  
StatlerPsyD: You argued over her boyfriend?  
CL: He prank calls me. Been doing it for years. The night of the fight, she was there while he was doing it and she acted as if it was no big deal even though a) it's a federal offense and b) businesses were being defrauded and oh yeah c) I was being harassed.  
_

Such a bad night. The memory came flooding back.

_StatlerPsyD: Was she perhaps trying to downplay it to get you to cool off?  
CL: I don't know. The asshat consults for the department. He's been in a thorn in my side since before she even came to town, and she knows it.  
StatlerPsyD: What was the nature and outcome of the argument?  
CL: I vented. I told her it seemed like she didn't have much use for me anymore and be that as it may, I wouldn't tolerate his antics even if it meant she got caught in the middle professionally.  
StatlerPsyD: What was her reaction?  
CL: She was upset but more about me questioning our partnership. The next day we talked about it again and I guess we made up.  
StatlerPsyD: You guess?  
CL: I don't really go into a lot of detail about emotions with other people._

Here, surprisingly, Juliet found herself smiling. He was self-aware enough to know he hated being self-aware.

_StatlerPsyD: I see. So your original question about trust relates to this incident?  
CL: Yeah. Since then she's been trying. I mean, I can *see* she's trying.  
StatlerPsyD: To do what?  
CL: To… I don't know. To be SuperPartner? I think she doesn't trust what I said. When I told her I wouldn't go through with my threat to bring her down with him if he didn't stop the pranks. I think she's afraid I'd really go after her._

Taking a deep breath, and feeling inexpressibly cold, Juliet told herself futilely to stop reading. He was wrong, but his belief in this wrong assumption was clear.

_StatlerPsyD: Would you?  
CL: Hell no. She deserves better. He does what he wants and it's not her fault.  
StatlerPsyD: But you think she doesn't trust you'll keep your word?  
CL: Yeah. I think she wants to protect him so badly that she'll treat me with kid gloves. It's like she thinks I could snap at any minute and she has to keep him safe from me._

"Oh, Carlton," she whispered. "We've gotten so off track."

_StatlerPsyD: May I ask what your other loss-of-trust incident was during your partnership?  
StatlerPsyD: CL?  
CL: When they started dating, she kept it from me. I found out accidentally and I didn't handle it well. She said it was none of my business.  
StatlerPsyD: I suspect you're leaving out a lot.  
CL: Yeah.  
StatlerPsyD: Give me a chance to understand.  
CL: It's not like when she dated before. I handled that okay. But this guy—look, I'm not the only one who thinks he's an ass. And we work together. For her to keep it from me felt wrong, like a half-dozen simultaneous slaps upside the head. For her to be so angry when I called her on it felt even worse. I didn't want to be partnered with someone who had to lie to me about a personal relationship because she couldn't trust me to react right._

Dammit, now she had to blow her nose. STOP READING, she pleaded with herself.

Herself didn't listen.

_StatlerPsyD: Did you really want a new partner, after all those years?  
CL: No.  
StatlerPsyD: Did she?  
CL: She fought me on it. Our boss said no anyway._

And thank God for that, Juliet thought. Vick—whose refusal was motivated more by irritation than prescience—had done her a favor even if it did mean sitting here right now hurting.

_StatlerPsyD: How long ago was this?  
CL: Over a year.  
StatlerPsyD: Did the situation improve? You said you trust her completely.  
CL: I do.  
StatlerPsyD: But? You don't think she trusts you? She didn't want a new partner, so she must have thought there was something to salvage there.  
CL: She's stubborn.  
__StatlerPsyD: That seems facile, CL. Stubborn enough to keep a partner she doesn't trust?  
__CL: Maybe not. But she obviously doesn't think I'm worth telling the truth to about him._

"Wrong," she murmured. "So wrong."

_StatlerPsyD: Is it possible she wanted to keep her private life private from everyone, and not just you? Or that knowing you have problems with him, she was actually shielding you?  
CL: I'd like to think so. But I still remember how she looked when I confronted her. That wasn't shielding. It was anger. And I think she still feels that way at least a little, and since I went off on him about the prank calls, I think she feels like she has to protect him. Because I'm the enemy._

Another tissue. Her head ached as much as her heart did now.

_StatlerPsyD: This is a harsh view. Is she a person who holds grudges, or behaves underhandedly?  
CL: No.  
StatlerPsyD: You're painting an uneven picture of your partner. You trust her, but think she doesn't trust you. You say she's shielding her boyfriend from you, but she resisted getting a new partner when she had the chance. You seem to value her and admit to the bond of partnership, but you don't want to talk to her about this, instead choosing an anonymous conversation with an Internet psychologist. I have to conclude you don't trust her nearly as much as you say you do.  
CL: I DO trust her.  
StatlerPsyD: Not to be your partner in all aspects of the job, however. You understand? That's not how trust works in a career like yours. You don't trust her to be your partner._

_StatlerPsyD: CL?  
CL: Because she doesn't trust me to be her friend._

Juliet sat up straight, staring at the screen through a mist of tears.

_StatlerPsyD: Now we have direction.  
__CL: Peachy.  
__StatlerPsyD: You value your friendship as much as your partnership, and I'm sure you understand trust should lace both together.  
__CL: Yeah.  
__StatlerPsyD: And you understand what you're telling me is somewhat convoluted, but then again we are dealing with the human mind and heart.  
__CL: Your point?  
__StatlerPsyD: Let me ask you one more time, to get this settled, because I can't help you if you're not honest with both yourself and me. Do you have romantic feelings for your partner?_

_StatlerPsyD: We don't have to analyze them here. But if you acknowledge them, we can factor them into a discussion of the broader issue._

_StatlerPsyD: CL._

She realized she was holding her breath, and that Carlton's answer at the top of the next page could change everything.

_StatlerPsyD: CL, this is an important point to establish.  
CL: Yes.  
StatlerPsyD: Yes, what?  
CL: Yes. I have romantic feelings for my partner.  
CL: Damn you._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Repercussions

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Staring at the file, absorbing the enormity of the words, didn't help ease the panic.

Closing the file didn't help either.

Pretending it had never been read at all was a complete bust.

Running his hands through his hair roughly, Carlton strode to the room's mini-fridge and yanked out the tiny little bottle of whiskey. It wouldn't do any good and he'd have to reimburse the city for it, but screw that: a man needed a drink when he realized he'd just exposed his inner heart to the one person he'd meant to keep it from.

Of course, maybe she _didn't_ read it. It was _possible_.

Carlton went over it in his head. She had only CCed the files to herself as a backup for him. If she was curious about anything, it would have been the PowerPoint presentation itself, because he never got a chance to show it to her before he left. But really? Opening up files seemingly only about stats? Surely not.

So… it was possible.

But then again, his luck didn't usually run that way.

He downed the contents of the bottle and slammed the fridge door shut—not a very satisfying thunk considering its size—and flung himself onto the bed.

Swell. Now she knew. Probably.

That first night with Statler, he shut the session down as soon as he typed those fateful words, but he did talk to him again, several times over the next few weeks. _Those_ log files were in a folder called "Idiocy." He didn't know how he'd missed moving the first one over there.

Probably because he was an _example_ of idiocy.

Statler was an online psychologist Carlton had checked out thoroughly, one he'd chosen because he was on the east coast (far removed from anyone who might know Carlton) as well as because of his professional reputation, including online patient reviews.

Carlton wasn't looking to have his hand held; he wanted answers.

Of course it was naïve to think answers would be readily available, but he'd been living with The Juliet Question so long that he knew he needed an impartial third party help him either dissect it or dismiss it.

Now, dammit, his initial dissection—vivisection—was sitting in Juliet's Inbox.

_Maybe she'll delete it unread. Maybe when you call her tomorrow after the presentation and tell her casually she can delete the files, she'll just do it and this will be a complete non-event._

At the same time, he felt curiously… detached.

_Whoa, whoa: you have to CALL her. Tomorrow. You have to talk to her actual personage with your actual personage. _

_And crap on a cracker, you have to act like nothing's wrong._

Deep, deep breath.

Still…

Oddly detached.

Dare he think: a little relieved? Maybe even… free?

Rolling over and punching the defenseless pillow, he puzzled over this (Statler would be proud, the bastard).

His initial point of inquiry with the doctor had truly been about wondering if he should hang on to what seemed like a doomed partnership. He really _did_ think it was only about whether he could live with her lack of trust. Whether he _should_.

Statler had several times encouraged him to talk to Juliet, but that was never going to happen. He would _never_ tell her how he felt about her; he would _never_ willingly engage her in a discussion of their existing relationship. It would never happen.

The only times he'd ever been completely open with her about 'them' followed a loss of self-control on his part through anger. Anger when he found out she'd concealed dating Spencer. Anger over the prank calling. Anger which made him speak the truth in harsh terms.

Harsher than normal, that is. He sighed.

Of course, maybe she should have been noble enough—strong enough—that once she realized it was a personal file, she closed and deleted it.

He might even be justifiably angry with her for reading an obviously private document.

_Yeah, crap to that_. It's not as if were labeled "Stay Out" or "Nunya Bidness" or "This Doc Is Boobytrapped." It was amid files of _statistics_. He'd have opened it himself in the same circumstances, and honestly couldn't say _he_ wouldn't have read to the end instead of closing it in a panic.

So… if she opened it, she almost certainly read it.

And… now she knew he had feelings for her.

She'd freak—what sane woman wouldn't?—but how she _dealt_ with it would be the test.

Possibilities:

1) She could ask for a new partner without giving Vick a reason why. He'd go along, but Vick would be pissed and they'd both pay the price.  
2) She could ask for a new partner and tell Vick _exactly _why. Public humiliation would result.  
3) She could confront him. It would be ugly, sad and pathetic, peppered with her raucous laughter. Possibly also with seltzer.  
4) She could tell Spencer. Carlton would end up in prison for murder.  
5) She could tell Guster, make him swear not to tell Spencer; Guster would immediately tell Spencer, and Spencer would have yet one more piece of ammo for his Humiliate Lassiter Arsenal. Carlton would end up in prison for murder.  
6) Dear God, she could tell his _mother_. Forget prison: leave town. The state. Possibly the U.S.  
7) She could dump Spencer. Then she could run off with Carlton to a land safe from flying pigs. This, of course, would be _after_ all the damned monkeys flew out of his butt.  
8) She could just bear up under the strain of an awkward silence, feeling too sorry for him to cut him loose, until he finally cut himself loose rather than face that solemn dark blue pitying gaze another day.

Statler, he suspected, would ask him why he didn't have a happy possibility in there.

The answer was simple: there were no happy possibilities.

Even if she didn't read the log, even if she had no clue, even if she eventually dumped Spencer on her own simply because he was a lying, stealing, narcissistic, immature con artist, there was still nothing between them, and that was How Things Were. He would never pursue it, and she would never want it, period.

Bottom line: this was about being able to _work_ together. That was all there needed to be between them. It had been good—it had once been better than good—and he had to know if it could ever approach that level of good again.

Bottom line under the first bottom line: yeah… but for a long time, it hadn't been _that_ good.

Still, she was the best partner he'd ever had—even when things were tense—and the idea of trying to adapt to someone new at SBPD was beyond daunting.

(Yes, he had adapted to Juliet after Lucinda. But he and Lucinda weren't partnered very long, he'd mucked that up with their short-lived affair, and she was gone before what bond they had was fully formed.)

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Tim Curry as King Arthur declaring, "This is a _toe-tal_ bloody disahster. All my knights have fled, and we're lost in a dahk and veddy expensive fohrest."

It was impossible to look on the bright side right now, despite the song which followed that proclamation.

And yet…

And yet he still felt a little detached.

Almost as if having it out there would at least get him out of the rut. Good things came from bad every day, right? And even if one of Possibilities 1-6 or 8 came to pass, at least it would be _done_. Out there. Over.

From that could come a new start.

Granted, it would be in Timbuktu, but no sense updating the passport just yet.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The presentation went well.

That's what they told him, anyway, when fellow law enforcement officials approached him afterward.

Carlton really had no idea. He'd gone over it repeatedly last night, and before breakfast, and again during breakfast, and was pretty sure he advanced to the proper PowerPoint screens and read the right bits of his speech in the right places, but all he was really thinking about was calling Juliet later. Like, after lunch. _Well_ after lunch.

And about how to get _out_ of calling her.

And about how to 'read' her without giving anything away.

And about how he was going to react if she started the conversation with a screechy "what the hell?"

Or worse, sobbing or sounds of obvious revulsion?

Or worse than worse, "the number you have called is no longer in service and oh, by the way, ick"?

He shook hands with a bunch of nameless faces and made gruff statements of appreciation for the accolades, far too distracted to puff up about it.

For the first time, he was glad he didn't have to go home until Friday. Maybe Vick would extend his time off to include a completely random drive up the coast. She _might_ approve an unplanned six-month leave.

He could tell her he had a 'brain cloud.' It worked for Tom Hanks.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The strange thing.

The strange thing, Juliet thought with the disjointedness she'd felt since last night.

The strange thing was that she wasn't nearly as freaked out about it as she should have been.

No sleep and a buzzing brain made for a zombie-like detective. For several minutes, she stood at the coffee bar staring into her mug, wondering why it was empty, until McNab came up alongside her.

"You okay, Detective?"

"Hmmm?" She glanced up at him. McNab. Yes. The tall one. Gave off a 'rookie' air despite having been at SBPD even longer than she had.

"You, uh, seem a little out of it. Can I get you some coffee?"

"Oh. Yes, that'd be nice." She handed him her mug and turned back to her desk, but when she sat down she couldn't remember why she'd gotten up to begin with.

"Here you go," he said as he set the mug down carefully in front of her. "What do you hear from Detective Lassiter?"

She stared at him in consternation. "What?"

Buzz frowned. "About the presentation. I was just wondering how it went."

Relief flooded her, along with embarrassment about her confusion. "I don't know yet. He's supposed to call me later."

_Oh God. He's supposed to _call_ me later. I have to pretend I didn't read that log, even though, come on, he knows I read it, or at least he knows I have it, and if our positions were reversed I'd assume _he_ read it and I wouldn't even really hold it against him because please, it was in a batch of statistics files and dammit, who are you kidding? You're scum. And he has feelings for you. He has feelings for scum. We _both_ need doctors._

"Detective?" Buzz prompted, looking very concerned. "You okay?"

"I'm scum," she said.

"Come again?"

She shook herself. "Sorry. I mean I'm really tired and I probably need to go get some lunch."

He smiled, half-reassuring and half-nervous. "Sounds like a good idea."

Yes. It did. Juliet got up at once and headed out, dimly aware of his query about her untouched coffee, or maybe it was her untouched laptop, or maybe he wasn't talking to her at all. She needed fresh air, sunshine and ten hours of sleep, minus the sleep, because she had to figure out what to say to Carlton and _why she wasn't freaked out_ that he had romantic feelings for her.

Because she _should_ be freaked out.

And he shouldn't have those feelings.

Okay, so it wasn't as if she was undesirable or anything. And he was a very attractive single man (with some seriously remarkable blue eyes) who knew her better than anyone else. He was also a man who had pretty high standards, so, you know, if he had feelings for her, it was actually kind of a huge compliment but she _shouldn't_ be complimented because he was her partner and she had a boyfriend.

On the other hand, Carlton didn't want her to know about those feelings, which were entirely his business, _not_ hers; thus he was under no obligation to reveal them, which completely removed her right to discuss them.

_So shut up, O'Hara, internally and otherwise. You don't even know if he ever spoke to the psychologist again. It's been six weeks. Maybe he worked through it and realized you were scum_.

"Jules, my love!"

Well, that didn't help.

"Shawn!" she said with false brightness, and he bounded across the parking lot to kiss her cheek.

He was carrying what looked like magazines under his arm. "You ready for lunch?"

"No," she lied, and she didn't know why except that with what was in her head right now, an hour with Shawn wasn't a good idea. Unless he was asleep. "I have a couple of errands to run. What brings you down here?"

He smiled. "Just wanted to see you. Maybe Woody. Buzz, too. And check in on Rusty, my favorite cockroach. You know, the one who lives behind Dobson's filing cabinet."

"Uh-huh. What's with the magazines?"

"Oh," Shawn said, shifting them slightly, "just dropping these off."

She couldn't read the titles, and knew instinctively that he didn't want her to see them. "For whom?"

"Lassie, and may I say, Jules, _very_ nice use of 'whom.'" He grinned. "I do appreciate a woman who treats the English language with dignity and respect. I bet you never say 'anyways.'"

"Of course not, because it's completely wrong. Any_way_," she added pointedly, "why do you have magazines for Carlton?"

He blinked. "They were delivered to the Psych office by mistake."

"Ohhh. I see. Yeah. Because that's… _totally_ probable." In the half-second before his impending next lie, she reached out and snatched the magazines from under his arm, backing away with her haul before he could react.

"Hey!" he protested. "Not cool. Well, pretty cool as a move, but not cool."

"_Cat Fancy_, _The Miserablist_, and what the hell? _Girls and Corpses_?"

"I'm not responsible for Lassie's reading tastes!" He reached out for them, but she held on tight.

"These don't have address labels, Shawn." She felt fury rising. "Last month he was asking why copies of _Teen Vogue_ and _Crochet Magazine_ were in his inbox. I can't believe I _didn't_ assume you put them there. At least I'm not bothering to assume you actually paid for them."

"Jules, labels fall off and magazines get misdirected all the time," he began placatingly. "There is simply no need to direct anger toward the post office. They have enough internal strife as it is."

"My anger isn't toward the post office. It's toward _you_. Stop harassing my partner!"

Shawn scoffed. "It's hardly harassment. It's not even on the same level of prank calls, which are barely harassment themselves, and before you ask, no, I haven't called him since the night he went all medieval on us. This is just for fun! It keeps his blood flowing! And incidentally, he could learn a lot from _Girls and Corpses_."

Juliet threw the magazines back at him; they bounced off his chest and landed in a flutter at his feet. "Take these out of here and don't come back. I don't ever want to see anything on Carlton's desk, or in his car, or even anywhere near his home, that is an attempt on your part to have some 'fun.' This is not fun, Shawn. This is you trying to figure out how far you can push him before he snaps."

"You still think he's going to turn on you? Jules, come on! We both know this guy. He would never do a thing to hurt you. You don't have to worry about your career."

"This is not about my career! This is about my _friend!_ About you being an ass to my friend even though I've repeatedly asked you to stop!"

Shawn stared at her, puzzled.

_Puzzled? The hell?_

Juliet put her hands to her temples and rubbed hard. "Just stop it, Shawn. It's not funny. He doesn't like it. And it hurts _me_ that you won't listen." She couldn't talk to him anymore, and she sure couldn't listen. Her cell rang and she yanked it out of her pocket while walking away from him.

"O'Hara," Carlton said in her ear, a blessedly familiar sound and timbre and _thank God_ he'd called before she turned around and shot her boyfriend.

"Carlton, hi," and she sounded breathless, because she was, but there was no time to be nervous. Behind her, Shawn yelled out her name, and she snapped at him to go away.

"What's going on?" Carlton asked sharply.

"He's being an ass." She made it to her car and got in, locking the doors before Shawn could so much as think of reaching for the handle. "Hang on while I burn rubber."

A couple of blocks away she pulled into a convenience store lot. "Okay. Safe for a bit."

"No one's ever _really_ safe from Spencer. You all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks." She composed herself. "He was trying to leave tacky magazines on your desk."

"Tacky…" He growled. "Worse than the teen rag? I had that Justin Beebrain twerp burned into my retinas for a week."

"Worse than that," she said emphatically. "I'm just glad I caught him. I'm so sorry he won't let up."

"Stop apologizing for him. He's an adult, in theory, and he makes his own completely incomprehensible and juvenile choices."

Yes, he did. Juliet sighed. "Never mind. How did the presentation go?"

"Quite well. Apparently I embarrassed neither myself nor the SBPD."

"Good! Now Vick won't have to find a new head detective." She was pleased for him. "And I'll get to keep my partner."

"Masochist," he said, and knowing Carlton, he might not have been kidding.

Juliet was relieved to be talking to him, and well away from Shawn, and it dawned on her that she'd felt this way before—particularly the 'away from Shawn' part—and suddenly her discovery last night took on a whole new facet… and yet… and yet it still didn't freak her out.

_Think about that later._

Anyway, maybe he was right: except her masochism had to do with Shawn, not Carlton.

"If I were a masochist, I'd request to be partnered with Woody."

"Bite your tongue, woman." His horror seemed genuine.

"You know," she teased, "Woody's a pretty nice guy. I don't think he's got a mean bone in his body. He's just a little weird. Okay… _really_ weird."

"You mean really, really, really, really, really, _really_ weird."

"And also weird." She sighed, inexplicably happier and more focused than she'd been all day. "So what else is going on at the conference?"

"I spotted two buffet-crashers and three hookers, and I'm pretty sure one of the lady sheriffs is really a man. Damn strong handshake and I couldn't spot an Adam's apple because she had on a scarf, but her jaw was disturbingly masculine and—why are you laughing?"

"Because you're funny," she said simply. "I miss you, partner."

"I've only been gone a day and a half." He sounded wary.

"Yeah, but it's been a _long_ day and a half." _Boy howdy_.

"I hear that. Ah… thanks again for helping me out last night."

Juliet reminded herself she could act: she had to act every time she was up against a suspect, so acting like she hadn't read any incriminating files should be easy.

_Yeah. Right._

"You're very welcome," she said after what she hoped was not an unduly long pause. "It's not like I could allow you to bring shame to the precinct."

"You say the sweetest things. So what were the magazines Spencer brought?"

"You really don't want to know."

"Actually, now I want to know more than ever."

There was a grin in his tone (and she would have loved to see it in his big blue eyes), but she knew how quickly it would vanish if she told him. "The _least_ objectionable one was _Cat Fancy_, and dammit Carlton, am I stupid?"

"Are you—what?"

"Am I stupid to be involved with him?" She hadn't meant to ask this, but then she hadn't planned to become riled about Shawn again out of nowhere.

"O'Hara," he began uneasily.

_Might as well push on_. "I'm serious. If anyone's going to give me an honest answer, it'll be you. It'll be brutal, but it'll be the truth, and I really need that right now."

Carlton let out a breath. "O'Hara. What do you care what anyone else thinks of your relationship?"

"Well… I care if they think I'm _stupid_!"

"Listen to me." He was insistent. "If you are happy in your relationship, then screw anyone else's opinion, including mine. Screw 'em all. No one else counts but you and your significant other."

"But what if my significant other is…" Juliet trailed off.

"A butthead?" He sounded dry. "I told you before: you're not responsible for his behavior. If he's a butthead to _you_, now, that's different. That's me kicking his sorry ass. But how he treats me isn't your responsibility."

"Yes it is," she protested. "I can't just sit by—like I have for so long—and let him keep driving you crazy. You're my partner. I owe you. And I'm stupid for letting him—"

"O'Hara," he interrupted. "Stop it. You know damn well I'm the last person to ask for relationship advice. Hell, where Spencer's concerned, only an expert psychologist could make any headway. Just go back to what I said before. If you're happy, forget everyone else. If you're not, then work on that, not protecting me from his juvenile antics."

She sighed. "Carlton."

"Besides, you need to maintain plausible deniability when I finally snap and shoot the son of a bitch and you have to claim you didn't know I was going to do it."

She felt a faint smile coming. "Good point."

Carlton cleared his throat. "But I'm serious about the psychologist."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Shortly after the call ended, Carlton was sitting in the hotel's Cordelia Room, waiting for a presentation on personnel evaluation methods to begin.

He was in the odd position of being grateful to Spencer for torking Juliet off enough that the topic of what she might (or might not) have read in his files never so much as got hinted at.

He was also in the _familiar_ position of wanting to head-smack the dolt for torking Juliet off in the first place.

He was also a little stunned that he—he, _Carlton Lassiter_—had recommended Juliet get some outside help if her relationship was troubling her.

She had no chance to respond because she got another call, this one from the station, and had to go back to work. But she thanked him for listening, and he felt her sincerity.

He also felt he'd be talking to Dr. Statler again very soon.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

First thing the next morning, full of coffee, trepidation and resolve, Juliet tapped on the thick glass window in the cool pastel green room.

The window slid back to allow the smiling woman inside to greet her. "Good morning! How may I help you?"

"My name is Juliet O'Hara," she said evenly. "And I have an appointment to talk to Dr. Gentry."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[A/N: those are all actual magazines.]_


	4. Chapter 4: Aquarium Discussions

**CHAPTER FOUR**

******. . . .  
****. . .**

_[A/N: If you read my Karlton story This Is Not A Lassiet, you will know I have lifted Dr. Gentry (who counseled Carlton) from therein. Hey, I liked the guy. I actually stole the name and demeanor from two old _Laverne & Shirley_ episodes. Bet ya didn't see _that_ connection coming, did ya?]_

******. . . . .  
****. . . .  
****. . .****  
**

Juliet picked Matthew Gentry's name out of the yellow pages, ran a quick background check, called his office and discovered, because Fate worked like that, an opening in his schedule for the first time slot of the day. Cancellation, the warm voice on the phone told her; and Juliet notified Chief Vick she'd be in mid-morning, glad Vick didn't ask why.

Clearly this was meant to be, and despite having read Carlton's personal 'reaching out' to a psychologist, it was odd to realize _he_ was the reason she thought seeking thera… no… an _audience_, would be a good move.

This thought went unexpressed, yet Dr. Gentry smiled, obviously reading her body language. "You have a problem with the concept of therapy?"

"No. I just never considered it in terms of my own life."

"But as a police officer, you've had to undergo psychological evaluations on a regular basis."

"Yes, but… those are related to my work. And they don't bother me."

The doctor's warm brown gaze didn't falter. "Sure about that?"

Juliet sighed. "All cops have a problem with psych evals. They determine whether we can stay on the job. But I consider them part of what I do, like submitting a timesheet or turning in my monthly reports, and I go in to those sessions with a pretty open mind." She hesitated. "I think. And I've been known to urge _other_ people to get therapy. I just… like I said. I never thought I'd need any help of my own."

"And you chose a doctor not affiliated with the police department because…?"

It would take too long, this early in the conversation, to explain how intertwined Shawn was with her work life.

"Because this is personal, not job-related. That is, it's not related to any investigation, so I don't want it to be part of my personnel record."

One of the facts revealed by her background check of Matthew Gentry was that he'd only been in Santa Barbara for a year and thus was less likely to have formed a wide network of connections which could link back to the police department.

(Maybe a _touch_ of Carlton's paranoia had rubbed off on her over time.)

"You're from the Midwest?" she asked as he considered her.

He was surprised. "Milwaukee. Oh, you checked me out?"

"You're going to find out about me, so I figured it was fair to find out about you."

Laughing, he moved his chair a little to the right, revealing the entirety of the large aquarium to his left. "I suppose it is. Let me remind you up front that whereas your job requires public accountability, my accountability is to my patients. I take confidentiality very seriously."

"Okay." Juliet smoothed her slacks, trying to relax in the padded chair. The fish in the tank were languid, brightly colored and soothing.

"So what brings you here?"

"I need to know if I'm an idiot to be in my current relationship."

"Ah. Did you choose the word 'current' to indicate you think it's only temporary?"

She blinked. "I… I don't know."

"_Feeling_ like an idiot doesn't necessarily mean you _are_ an idiot. It most likely means you're just aware there are problems in the relationship you can't solve on your own. Have you considered couples therapy? I don't counsel in that area but I can refer you to—"

"It wouldn't work," she said flatly. "Not with him."

Dr. Gentry smiled. "This is a fairly common reaction. Have you talked to him about it?"

"It wouldn't work. This is where I get to say, 'you don't know him,' and you get to ask me to tell you how he's different, but let's just skip ahead to where I reiterate: it wouldn't work. Even if he agreed to come in, whatever he said would be either a joke or something designed to derail the conversation completely. He uses humor as his defense as well as his offense. He is not in any way a good subject for therapy, and besides, he wouldn't understand the problem, let alone admit there might be one."

There was a pause while he studied her. "All right, then. Sounds like we already have a place to start."

A wave of sadness—unease—washed over her. "Maybe I just answered my own question about whether I'm an idiot."

Still he smiled, as if she were anything but. As if he liked her without even knowing her. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Juliet. So far all I've heard is that he's a strong personality and you're a perceptive woman when it comes to reading people, or at least him. Presumably there is something to your relationship or you wouldn't have entered into it in the first place. Tell me what's good about it. Give me all the positives of being involved with this man."

She drew herself up. She'd known this question was coming. "I was 24 when I transferred here, and it was my first time out as detective. I was green, and I had an imposing, slightly scary senior partner, and Shawn was this bit of light and spontaneity in a totally strange world. I loved learning the ins and outs of my job but I was so… so _young_, and I needed something, or some_one_—someone more like me—as an outlet."

He frowned slightly. "You're not quite 32 now, right? Is Shawn your age?"

"No, he'll be 37 soon. And you grow up fast in my line of work."

"This I know," he agreed. "Okay, so his youthful charm attracted you. How long have you been a couple?"

"A year and a half. We had missed opportunities and other derailments along the way."

"So you can say you knew him pretty well before you got involved."

"Yes, but see, that just makes me feel more like an idiot," she said unhappily.

"Hang on. We're not done having you tell me the good."

_The good. Okay. You can do this. Take your cue from the fish. Imagine you are as languid as they are._

"He's… he's loyal. He's tenacious. He's good at catching bad guys. He's—"

Dr. Gentry interrupted. "Is he also a police officer?"

"No, he's a consultant. He's…"

_Now why are you hesitating?_

"He's a psychic."

One eyebrow went up slightly. "Is he the one I've seen in the newspaper occasionally?"

Juliet flushed. "Yes."

_Interesting that you find this embarrassing._

"Interesting," Dr. Gentry said, "to see this makes you uncomfortable. Is it because of his notoriety or because you think his profession often elicits a skeptical reaction?"

Juliet looked at him, trying to figure it out for herself. "I don't know."

"Or is it because of the way he comes across in the news or on TV?"

She felt her flush deepening.

The doctor nodded. "His behavior makes you uneasy."

"It makes everyone uneasy," she admitted.

"We're not talking about everyone. Just you."

"He can be a total ass."

_There. Said._

"That's a bit more direct." He smiled. "And when you're alone?"

"Alone alone, or just off the job?"

"Is there a distinction between alone and alone alone?"

"Well… yes. I'm not actually alone with him very often. That is, his friend Gus is usually with us."

The slightly-arched eyebrow from before became a full-out arch. "We'll come back to Gus. Let's say I mean alone alone."

"Okay. Well, it's still the humor. He's very funny. And he can be really sweet. I know he loves me."

She fell silent.

Dr. Gentry leaned back in his chair, and once more her gaze went briefly beyond him to the two blue fish swimming together slowly from one side of the tank to the other. "So he's funny, loyal, sometimes sweet, and he loves you, in addition to being able to help put bad guys in jail. Anything else for the 'plus' column?"

It was a disgrace, she thought later, that nothing came readily to mind. "Of course," she managed. "Of course there is. But those are the main points."

"I see. All right, what about the minuses?"

"This could take a while," she mumbled.

He laughed. "It all has to start somewhere."

"He's… oh, God. He's a narcissist. He lies, pretty much about everything, and most of it's in the course of doing his job, but not all of it. They're little, the lies he tells me, most of them wrapped up in jokes, misdirection. He's _terrible_ to Gus. He routinely makes off with his credit card, for one thing, and he's really incredibly nosy and invasive—once before we were dating he took my phone and emailed all my male contacts photos of dogs with the caption 'this is you,' which was pretty hard to explain to my grandfather—but Gus… they're like two halves of the same really strange coin. Gus finally has a girlfriend so they're not together 24/7 but they might as well be. And he can be really petulant—Shawn, not Gus—and he _hates_ attention on anyone else. He's been merciless to Carlton, my partner, for years. I can't believe Carlton hasn't killed him before now. Honestly I can't believe I—or Gus, or his dad—haven't killed him. He's so unbelievably childish sometimes, and the more serious he looks when he's telling you something, the more likely it is he's lying. Like a few months ago when his dad was shot. He told me fifty times he wasn't going to get involved in the case but every step of the way he put himself in danger in ways that were kind of unstable, and I told myself it was because it was his dad and because he felt he had no choice but honestly I'd have preferred if he told me the truth rather than lie every time. And then after that I had an undercover assignment involving an online dating service and at first he thought I was cheating on him but rather than _ask_ me about it, he followed me to the restaurant and accosted me there and nearly blew my cover and even after he realized I was working, he continued to force his way into the case and insult me and act like a jealous idiot and the really scary thing is that I felt myself sinking to that level. I was _also_ getting much too invested in the case and the process of attracting other men and I wondered if I was _trying_ to make him jealous until I realized, after the fact, that the truth was, I wasn't thinking about him at all, and then after the case he said we should move into together and I—I—oh my God, I said yes like it was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard, and now I don't know how I'm going to get out of it because honestly what the hell good would come out of living with a guy I already know will never be honest with me, will endanger my cases because of his jealousy, will spend most of his waking hours with Gus anyway, and probably never take the damn trash out in his life?"

The room was quiet.

The fish were still.

Juliet let out a huge, cleansing breath.

Dr. Gentry said mildly, "Okay. A few items for the minus column, then."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Wednesday night, Carlton came back from dinner with colleagues and sat by the window, glancing occasionally at the borrowed laptop.

The curtains were open and the view of the Sacramento River, aglow with reflections of the lights on the water, was beautiful and calming, even for him.

Even for _him_, worried about what was going on with Juliet.

They'd exchanged a few texts since yesterday, and had a brief conversation after his 'encore' presentation, touching on nothing personal whatsoever. She was perfectly bright and pleasant and he should be relaxing, except relaxing wasn't really in his nature about matters such as these, and besides, even if she hadn't read the file, she might still. He wouldn't be really 'safe' (as if he could be) until he was home and there was zero reason for her to keep them in her inbox.

But that wasn't why he was in front of the laptop.

Steeling himself, he went to the URL he had memorized, and logged in to see if Dr. Statler was available.

_StatlerPsyD: CL, good evening. How are you?  
__CL: I'm screwed.  
__StatlerPsyD: I see. Could you be more specific?  
__CL: She knows. Or there's the potential she knows, if not now, then at some moment when I least expect it.  
__StatlerPsyD: Hmm… I still need more. What happened?  
__CL: Short version: She has copies of files in her inbox, one of which is the log from my first session with you.  
__StatlerPsyD: The one you shut down after admitting your feelings?  
__CL: Damn skippy.  
__StatlerPsyD: But how did she acquire the file?  
__CL: I'm out of town. Needed some documents off my laptop. She emailed them to me and CCed herself but I forgot that the file name for the log put it alphabetically with the others.  
__StatlerPsyD: I see.  
__CL: And no, I didn't do it deliberately. Not even subconsciously. I'm not insane and I only run toward trouble if there's gunfire.  
__StatlerPsyD: I've learned that about you, don't worry. All right, so it's possible she found out you have trust issues with her.  
__CL: Forget trust issues: she might know how I FEEL.  
__StatlerPsyD: Trust is part of the package, CL. What do you think could happen?  
__CL: Not one damn thing which could even remotely be called good.  
__StatlerPsyD: How long since this occurred, and have you talked to her since then?  
__CL: I realized it 48 hours ago. No sign yet that she knows. But she's probably just hiding it, because what else can she do?  
__StatlerPsyD: She could ask you about it.  
__CL: Maybe, but if she hasn't by now, she won't.  
__StatlerPsyD: Again, that seems too easy. Also, if you believed it were that simple, you wouldn't be consulting me tonight.  
__CL: You're not making me like you.  
__StatlerPsyD: :-) It's not my job to be liked. It's my job to help you figure out what's really going on in your head.  
__CL: Right now I want you to tell me what's going on in HER head.  
__StatlerPsyD: Only she knows that. But let's work through this, CL. You assume her reaction to this information will be negative. Why?  
__CL: We've been through this in every session so far. I'm her partner. I'm an SOB. I'm hard to get along with. I'm arrogant. I'm not all fun and light and spontaneous like her asshat boyfriend. She's going to be worried about whether I'll make a pass at her, God forbid. She's going to be even more sure she can't trust me because it's one thing if I don't like her boy, but if I'm in love with her, then I might take a harder line against him than she was already afraid of.  
__StatlerPsyD: You mean that you *assume* she's afraid of. You don't actually know. It is still possible that she was sincere when she said she'd stand by you.  
__CL: ...  
__StatlerPsyD: That's an interesting response.  
__CL: Refer to my earlier comment about not liking you.  
__StatlerPsyD: I always do. At face value, what I see is her telling you she'll put you first over him if the need arises, and that she doesn't want a new partner, and behaving since that declaration in a way which supports her sincerity. I've commented before that if she was really afraid you'd go after him unnecessarily, she would seek a new partner rather than put her boyfriend in your path. It would be far easier: his behavior would be safe from your wrath, and she wouldn't have to pretend to be loyal to you.  
__CL: Face value is never what it seems.  
__StatlerPsyD: Face value is always what it seems: you seem determined to believe there is always something more than face value at work. But this goes back to what I've suggested to you before: that rather than this being about her trust in you, the real issue is your lack of trust in her.  
__CL: You don't see what I'm up against? Aren't any of your degrees in common sense?  
__StatlerPsyD: I see what you're up against. It IS a complicated situation given your work relationship, and would be even if you didn't have romantic feelings for her. But the reason you started this inquiry was about trust, so I'm obligated to keep bringing that up until it's resolved.  
__CL: ...  
__StatlerPsyD: Another illuminating response, CL, but not helpful. Do you trust your partner?  
__CL: I told you I do.  
__StatlerPsyD: Do you trust your partner to be honest with you?  
__CL: About most things.  
__StatlerPsyD: Do you *need* your partner to be honest with you about all things?  
__CL: Shouldn't I?  
__StatlerPsyD: Are you honest with your partner about all things?  
__CL: Who's honest with anyone about all things?  
__StatlerPsyD: You're right: no one is. We all have private issues, and sometimes honesty is used as a weapon instead of a tool. Let me ask you this now: what would it take for you to believe her? About standing by you if put to the test?_

_StatlerPsyD: I don't see any "..."_

_StatlerPsyD: What would it take?_

_CL: The test.  
__StatlerPsyD: All right. But is it fair to administer that test just to prove the point?  
__CL: No.  
__StatlerPsyD: Because?  
__CL: Because trust should be something you can feel.  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes. Do you feel you can trust her on the job, apart from the boyfriend?  
__CL: Absolutely.  
__StatlerPsyD: Do you feel you can trust her as your friend in matters which don't involve him?  
__CL: You mean like donating a kidney? Yes.  
__StatlerPsyD: So is it safe to say all of the trust issues revolve around her relationship with him, and your feelings for her?  
__StatlerPsyD: ...  
__CL: Very funny. Yes. It's safe to say that.  
__StatlerPsyD: So then the original question—should you remain partnered with a woman you fear doesn't trust you—becomes should you remain partnered with a woman you care for but whose affections lie elsewhere?__  
_

_CL: Crap. Yeah.  
__StatlerPsyD: Complicated now by the possibility that she knows your feelings.  
__CL: *There's* that common sense kicking in.  
__StatlerPsyD: So here are the scenarios: she knows and has a negative reaction, she knows and has a neutral reaction, she knows and has a positive reaction. Or she doesn't know. Which seems most likely?  
__CL: Duh.  
__StatlerPsyD: In English, please.  
__CL: She knows, and negative. 70% negative, 29% neutral (meaning she'll feign ignorance).  
__StatlerPsyD: Leaving 1% for a positive reaction? I'm impressed, CL. From you that's nearly giddy certainty.  
__CL: Not. Liking. You.  
__StatlerPsyD: The point is, even with a negative reaction, what is she likely to do?  
__CL: Give me a sec.  
__StatlerPsyD: Take your time.__  
_

He stared at his screen, because the bastard's point was simple. It was taking his question, "What's the worst that could happen?" and turning it back against him: what _was_ the worst that could happen?

_StatlerPsyD: And more importantly, CL, far more importantly, what will YOU do?_

_CL: I don't know.  
__StatlerPsyD: Is that all?  
__CL: No. I also don't like you. But I'll get back to you when I have an answer.  
__StatlerPsyD: I look forward to it. And by the way, I do like *you*, and I can see why she does as well, despite your low opinion of your worthiness.  
__CL: Shut up.__  
_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was going to be home tomorrow afternoon. Juliet brushed her hair as she stood in front of her closet, deciding which crisp but nondescript blouse to wear today with her crisp but nondescript jacket.

She'd missed him. It was a damned good thing he'd been gone during the past few days, but she'd _missed_ him, both on the job and off.

She had another appointment with Dr. Gentry in the morning; another 'lucky' cancellation, and she was both ready and not ready for it. He was a great listener, good at guiding her down the rocky path of discovery, and she knew that after only the one session.

After her rambling vent about Shawn, he'd steered her back to a calmer place, asking her to explain why she'd sought him out now in particular. What event precipitated her visit, he asked?

The prank calling blowup, she told him. She left out her increasingly complicated feelings for and about Carlton, because that incident really was the heart of the problem. The great awakening.

But Dr. Gentry's answer was, "Tell me more about your partner."

Juliet tensed, hoping he didn't notice. "I want to keep this about Shawn. About myself."

"We will, but I assume you spend a disproportionate number of waking hours with your partner, making him an enormous part of your life."

"Yes." It was only a little pause, wasn't it?

"And this prank-calling argument was a significant event."

"Yes."

"Which led you to reexamine—or perhaps examine for the first time—the exact nature of your relationship with Shawn."

"Yes."

He'd smiled at her. "Remember, you're safe here."

"I know."

"So tell me about your partner."

Juliet glanced at her watch. There wasn't much time left.

Dr. Gentry laughed. "We don't have to cover everything this morning. Seldom is a complex problem solved the first time out."

_Don't tell him about Carlton's feelings. That's not why you're here. You're here to find out why you're with Shawn. Or how to stop being with Shawn_.

"I really… just need help figuring out what's wrong with _me_ that I've stayed with Shawn this long. Even if I walk out of here and break it off with him before noon, I still need to know why—how—I became the kind of woman who would tolerate the lies and the narcissism and all the rest of it. I don't want to be her, not ever again."

"We'll work on that, Juliet. But life is very much about the people we share it with, and no discussion of how to address your concerns can be productive if you close the door on discussing one of the two most important relationships you have."

Her heart had twisted—it twisted again now—as she said, "Carlton is complicated too."

"We're all a little complicated."

"And two days ago I accidentally found out he loves me, and now I'm really confused about every damn thing in the world."

_Ohhh you eeeediot._

Dr. Gentry's smile, as always, was kind. "I think we'll have a lot to talk about in our future sessions."

_Yeah._

Juliet closed the closet door firmly and threw the hairbrush across the room. Tomorrow's session would be heap big fun.

She just hoped she made it through until she could see Carlton again, because regardless of those feelings he had, she still had to deal with his assumption she didn't trust him. She also had to figure out how she'd stood by and let him accrue so much scar tissue that he simply couldn't _let_ himself believe she'd stand by him even though she'd sworn it was true—and meant it with all her heart.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Aquarium and Reunion

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .  
****. . .****  
**

_[contains teeny tiny **spoilers** for "Santabarbaratown 2"]_

. . . .

**. . .**

She had coffee in hand this time, and Dr. Gentry was just as mild as he'd been two days ago.

"In our first session, you alluded to difficulties between Shawn and your partner. Would you like to start there?"

Might not get _past_ the start, she reflected. "They're oil and water, if you don't mind the cliché."

"I don't, but give me a little more."

"Carlton likes order and structure. It's a pretty important trait for a cop and he knows how to wade into a mess and get it straightened out. But Shawn… he loves _dis_order. And more than that, he hates anyone having any authority over him. He can't help but provoke Carlton at every opportunity."

"How does Carlton react?"

Juliet shrugged. "Sometimes I feel like I need to separate them, but honestly, Carlton's almost always the adult in the equation. Most of the time he just sighs or rolls his eyes. It doesn't stop Shawn, but then… nothing really stops Shawn unless he wants to be stopped."

"Is Carlton your first partner? The one you referred to as imposing and slightly scary?"

She smiled, remembering those early days. "Yeah. He's still both of those things, but I know him so well now I can usually see through the bluster."

Dr. Gentry smiled too, and sipped his own coffee. "Tell me about your relationship."

_Well, there was a puzzle._

She swallowed, suddenly unsure how to begin.

"Juliet?"

"I think I nearly broke it." The sadness washed over her, along with anxiety. "It's getting better, but I'm still so afraid it'll never come back."

"Stay calm," he urged her. "Very few things are impossible, and most fears can be overcome. Tell me what happened to make you think this."

"Shawn. Shawn happened, and I didn't do anything to stop it, and Carlton doesn't think I trust him anymore, which means he can't trust me, and I want that back, Dr. Gentry. I want Carlton's trust back, more than anything. More than… than anything or _anyone_ else." She blinked back a tear and clutched the coffee she no longer had any interest in drinking.

He surveyed her for a few seconds. "I think we should just start at the beginning."

When was the beginning exactly? The animosity between the men started before she knew either one of them. She tried to explain to Dr. Gentry how they differed, how _she_ and Carlton differed—but how they were alike in unexpected but important ways.

It was difficult to keep her tone calm, and she had a feeling he could see through her anyway.

"This argument over the prank calls—you feel it was pivotal?"

"I knew we were on shaky ground before that. But after the… altercation, I saw how far down my own evolutionary ladder I'd slipped, how complacent I'd become about myself in regard to Shawn's behavior."

He nodded.

Juliet pressed on, "You see why I'm really not here about Shawn? It's about me. It's how I am in relation to him."

"And Carlton. I'm hoping you'll fill me in on how you came to learn of his feelings, and when."

She felt the familiar heat in her cheeks.

"And why it makes you blush," he added with that also-familiar gentle smile. "It doesn't seem to be _unwelcome_ information."

"No," she admitted. "I don't… I don't know what to do about it, or whether I should do anything about it, but it's not unwelcome." She gave him the short version, about reading the log file even though she knew immediately she shouldn't do any such thing.

"I can see you feel a little guilty, but set that aside for a moment. I suspect most people would have succumbed to the urge, and you had no reason to think the file was private when you opened it."

"That's very generous of you." She met his gaze evenly. "It _wasn't_ right to read it. But I can't un-read it. And I'm glad I know, even if I am a mess right now."

"You're doing fine," he assured her. "The other day I asked you to list the good and bad about Shawn, so let's do the same for Carlton. Start with the bad this time."

Juliet shifted in the chair. "Okay. Easy. He's stubborn, pigheaded and prone to heavy sarcasm, but mostly that's a weapon against anyone figuring out he's got feelings. He's got a strange and possibly disturbing problem with squirrels and Olympia Dukakis." She noted the doctor's startled expression. "He's too quick to assume the worst about people and he holds grudges—or at least he maintains what he calls a Crap List." She grinned. "When he's annoyed with me, I always want to take a peek to see if I'm on it."

"I'd wager you're not. Anything else?"

"He, um, lacks some social charms—he's very impatient, for one thing. And I suppose he's too focused on our work, in that it takes over his off-time too. Too many hours at the gun range. That sort of thing. And he puffs up around cameras and media attention. He likes the opportunity to show off what he's accomplished, but..."

"But?"

"But," she puzzled, "even that sort of comes out of a base insecurity, I've always thought. It's like… he never talks about his dad, and what little he says about his youth makes it clear his mom was hypercritical of him and still is. It's as if becoming a cop, and being the man in charge, is his way of compensating for all that. He needs to be the best. He needs to show people he's the best. And he really _is_ the best at a lot of things, but I don't know how happy that makes him."

"This is fairly common. Striving to overcome an emotionally-challenged childhood can consume a person throughout life. What about his good qualities?"

Juliet sipped her coffee, feeling warm again. "Like Shawn, he's loyal and tenacious. And while he wants full credit for what he's done, he's never shied away from crediting me for what _I've_ done. Shawn, now, he'll even cut Gus out of the picture if he can, and he's done the same to me, but Carlton will always acknowledge the work of others. He's been really supportive of me, even when I've failed." Tancana's escape sprang to mind, and she banished him, only to have Thane Woodson pop up in his place. _Steady, girl_.

"That's important between partners. Friends, too."

Friends. Best friends, even.

"He can be wickedly funny. It's usually sarcasm, and sometimes I have to struggle not to laugh if it's my job to settle him down, but when we're alone he can crack me up just as fast as Shawn can." Memories of long hours on stakeouts, or even time spent fighting over who got to try out the newest police gadget, again warmed her. She did really _like_ Carlton very, very much.

Dr. Gentry encouraged her to continue.

"He'd kill me for saying it, but he can also be so nice. Sweet, almost. Never, ever, _ever_ in public; my God, he'd shoot everyone in sight first before letting anyone see his sweet side. But he's done some really nice things which I think he hopes no one ever finds out about." At the doctor's quizzical expression, she offered, "In one of our early cases together, the facts—Carlton lives by facts—pointed clearly to a particular woman as the murderer. But his gut told him she was innocent. He had to follow the law, but he didn't like it. Shawn, coincidentally, got involved in the case on the woman's behalf. Carlton stepped back, which is really hard for him, and let Shawn do the _non_-fact-based work of proving her innocence. When it was over, Carlton got Shawn's motorcycle out of impound—he owed something like $900 in parking fines and it was about to be auctioned off, but Carlton pulled it from the auction and made the fines go away. It's funny, isn't it? His need to follow the facts—the law—meant he _had_ to go forward with the case against the woman, but then he essentially broke the law to thank Shawn for doing what he couldn't do." She shook her head, still marveling after all these years. "He never admitted to it, but I know what he did."

"The secret do-gooder," Dr. Gentry suggested. "Shows a willingness to bend the rules to get to the best outcome."

"Then…" Juliet hesitated. "I'm only speculating on this one. But I think he helped Shawn catch the guy who shot his father a few months ago. We—the police—we were at a point where we couldn't do much, and Shawn was all over the map emotionally, pushing all kinds of buttons and taking all kinds of chances in his… well, his need for revenge. The night it all blew up, Carlton texted me to get over there. He said he'd be backup. He didn't answer when I called him, and to me that was an evasion, the kind he only does when he doesn't want to tell me the truth, because one thing I'm proud of is that it's hard for him to lie to me when I'm really pushing him. So when I got to the scene and took a look at everything that happened, there's no way it was all Shawn. He had to have help, and it wasn't help he could get from Gus or anyone else, certainly not anyone on the force. But Carlton…" She trailed off, still not entirely sure of anything except that he had somehow been involved. "Carlton helped him. I'm not sure to what extent, and Shawn dodged all my questions the same way Carlton stonewalled me. But I know he helped him, probably in ways which could have cost him his career."

"His goal was to catch the shooter? Or to help Shawn?"

"Maybe both. Maybe… and maybe I'm delusional, but maybe it was to help me. He knew I was worried about Shawn. He was behaving in a very unstable, volatile manner and I couldn't do anything for him as a cop and he wouldn't let me do anything for him as a girlfriend. I think Carlton saw that. And I wonder if maybe… just _maybe_ he was doing it for me." Sighing, she set the coffee down on the table beside the chair. "I've definitely been overthinking everything since the prank call blowup."

"Perhaps, but it's clear he values you and your happiness."

The two blue fish weren't together this morning. Blue #1 was with a yellow and green fish, and Blue #2 dodged behind a clownfish which took up a position at the glass, looking in Juliet's direction non-judgmentally, just like Dr. Gentry.

"I know he does," she said quietly. "So much of Carlton's life has been about standing alone against a mob. He might see himself that way too. It's hard for him to recognize real friends and supporters. He only sees his faults and all the old rejections. That's my speculation, anyway, about why he tries so hard to keep people at arm's length. With me initially, it had to do with his former partner."

Was it her place to say this?

"You're reluctant," he observed. "Remember I take confidentiality seriously."

Right. And this was ultimately about _her_, not Carlton. "It's nothing we've ever discussed, but they had an affair. Shawn exposed it, and Lucinda got transferred out. I never met her, but even when I was brand new I could see Carlton wasn't about to let me get anything like even remotely close to him, to protect his own reputation as well as mine. He kept me at an enormous distance for a long time. At first I thought it was because I was so young and inexperienced and didn't always know enough to keep my mouth shut and _learn_, but once I heard about Lucinda, I knew that was part of it."

"Was it a long-term affair?"

How did he manage to keep looking as if he were completely open-minded and reasonable?

"I don't know. I'm not sure anyone knows. I'd guess not, though. Carlton had been separated from his wife for about two years when I started, and Shawn outed their relationship the day he met them."

"Interesting. How did he find out about it?"

"I don't know, but exposing it was part of proving he was psychic."

Dr. Gentry eyed her curiously. "I detect a tone in your voice which suggests you're not so sure he _is_ psychic."

Juliet sighed. "I want him to be, so I won't have to feel incredibly stupid for letting him lie about it for over seven years."

"Have you ever asked him directly?"

"No. He passed a polygraph, so if that was a lie, I know he can lie to my face too." Odd how detached she felt, saying it. But it was true: she knew too well how easily he could lie about _everything_. "I _am_ a moron, aren't I? How can I have fallen for someone like him?"

"You're not a moron, Juliet. The heart goes where it wants. All you can do is control your behavior and reactions."

"Well, it's time to control them," she said fiercely. "Every second I talk about this puts me closer to breaking it off completely. It's just a question of how many times I slap him upside the head when the moment comes."

To her surprise, Dr. Gentry laughed. "I'm not going to tell you not to break it off, but I do caution you against the use of physical force. And we haven't finished talking about Carlton and—Lucinda, was it?"

"Lucinda Barry," she supplied. "By all accounts a good detective."

He was thoughtful. "Lucinda Barry? Oh, I remember reading about her."

"Come again?"

"When she died," he elucidated. "It seemed like such a shame."

Juliet stared at him. "Come again?"

Dr. Gentry hesitated. "Maybe I have the wrong name. When I first came out here a year ago, I spent a few weeks up around Napa touring the wine country. She had just taken on running the police department in one of the small towns around there and was killed in a car accident shortly after. It was big news because she was young, and so new to the job—their first female chief. It was a tragedy all around. I'm so sorry—I guess I naively assumed that kind of news would travel throughout police networks."

She was stunned.

"My grandmother was named Lucinda so it made an impression on me for that reason too. Are you all right? I take it Carlton never mentioned this."

"Not a word," she breathed, and had no idea what to think about it. "I wonder if he knows?"

"Even if he does, he might not have felt it was something he could share. Whatever relationship he did have with her he kept private from everyone, so it's understandable he might keep his reaction to her death private as well."

Juliet steadied herself. He was right. It was like Carlton—if he knew—to keep it to himself. After all, how tricky was it to bring up the topic of the death of a former lover, a lover he'd never admitted to having in the first place?

A year ago. She tried to think of what was going on a year ago—but it didn't matter. He could have found out at any time. For all she knew, he'd maintained contact with Lucinda all along. For all _she_ knew, they'd been phone and email buddies and confidantes for years.

And she, Juliet O'Hara, was a hell of a selfish, mixed-up creature to be _jealous_ of the late Lucinda Barry in this moment.

"Wow," she finally said. "I… I don't know what to say."

He drummed his fingers against the desk, studying her thoughtfully. "Let's move on. We've been talking about the men who've preoccupied your attention, but it's time to talk about you. About how you relate to them, and how you feel about yourself in the process."

"Right this second I feel like crap." It was the truth, too. Curling up to take a long-ass nap was a very attractive notion.

He only smiled. "I'll do my best to change that before you leave."

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Carlton was coming in after lunch, and if anything, Juliet felt more unsettled than ever. It seemed like years—not a few days—since she'd seen his tall lean blue-eyed scowling person, and she was trying to figure out how to justify a hug without causing him cardiac arrest.

Dr. Gentry had kept his word: she did feel better before she left his office.

He'd made the shrewd observation that while her list of Shawn's bad traits had come out in anger and exasperation, her list of Carlton's bad traits came out slowly and thoughtfully, showing she understood him better and could forgive him for much more.

Similarly, the list of good traits for Shawn was short, but much longer for Carlton. He said it didn't necessarily mean one man was better than other, but simply that her relationship with (and her understanding of) Carlton was stronger and deeper than it was with Shawn. This was good, he assured her, regardless of Carlton's feelings for her. It meant she was on firmer ground with the man she spent most of her time with, and in fact her relatively positive experiences with him gave her a good standpoint from which to analyze the flaws in her relationship with Shawn.

He promised her she wasn't crazy, or a mess, or unable to get back to 'normal.' He also told her to come back the following week, and they'd go on talking.

Juliet could do that. There'd be a lot more thinking first, but she could definitely stand more analysis, and Dr. Gentry and his all-star fish band were A+ in her eyes.

But now she was watching the clock. Carlton had texted that he'd be in about two, and she had agreed to join Shawn and Gus for a taco salad lunch at Carmelita's Pitas at noon. For once she was glad Gus would be there, because she really didn't think she was up for unadulterated Shawn.

_You know you have to end this relationship. It doesn't matter what you learn about yourself from Dr. Gentry. This relationship is not for you. Not anymore. If it ever was at all._

"You're not eating, Jules," Shawn said as he reached over and speared a chunk of her salad.

"You are," she shot back, gesturing to his empty plate as she pulled hers out of his reach. "I'm just not in the mood to wolf my lunch down."

Unfazed, he moved his fork toward Gus' plate; Gus smacked his hand hard.

He _tsk_ed, threw the fork down, and folded his arms, eyeing a bowl of unattended chips at the next table.

"How much help did you get from Carlton the night we took down Jerry Carp?"

Gus went still; Shawn's hazel gaze focused on Juliet.

"It's been over two months. I'd like to know."

"You don't want to know," Gus said.

"I do, and thank you for confirming how extensive his involvement was."

Gus and Shawn both _tsk_ed.

"Dude, never fall for the—whatever trick she just used. Never fall for that."

"Duly noted." He went back to his burrito, grumbling.

"Jules, it was a long dark night for all our souls. Possibly the soles of my shoes too. Let it go."

"Shawn, I _want_ to know. If you recall, I saved your life that night, so you kind of owe me."

"Or what? You'll take it back?" He smirked.

"I am armed," she pointed out.

"Ah." He shifted, reached over with one surprisingly long and fast arm for the other table's abandoned bowl of chips, and munched on a few while she waited.

"Shawn."

"Come on, Jules. You really want to know exactly how _over_ his career would be if it came out what he did?"

"It's not going to 'come out.' I only want to know for myself."

"What about possible reliability?"

Juliet frowned. "What?"

"Plausible deniability, Shawn." Gus glared. "And he's right, Juliet. The less you know, the better."

"Guys, Carlton is my friend. I'm not going to turn him in for anything he did to help put some very bad men in jail."

"If he's such a good friend, why didn't he tell you?" Shawn challenged.

"Possible reliability," she retorted. "And because he probably thought you'd blab it around anyway."

Gus scoffed. "And let Lassie get the credit?"

Shawn jabbed him in the arm. "Thanks, buddy."

Forget it, she decided. Just forget this one.

"Did you know Lucinda Barry was dead?" she asked instead. She wanted a feel for how well-known it was. Before lunch she'd looked her up and her death was as Dr. Gentry remembered: a car accident near Napa soon after assuming her duties as the Rojita Police Department's new chief. She was only 36, and engaged to be married. Her photo showed her to be a cool slim blonde; she looked intelligent and her service record was exemplary, and Juliet was sad for her that her life was over.

Shawn ate a few more chips. "Yes, I did."

"How did you know? And do not put your fingers anywhere near your forehead," she warned him. "Did Carlton tell you?"

He laughed. "As _if_. Nah, I found out during the Carp case. It didn't register on me because I was a little preoccupied at the time, but I saw her name over at Atwater's firing range."

Gus was looking at him with interest. "Where did you see her name?"

"Remember those plaques? With Lassie's name all over them? One of the ones he won—wow, that was a rhymy phrase, _one of the ones he won_—"

"Shawn!" she snapped.

"One of the award plaques with Lassie's name," he enunciated carefully, "was for the Lucinda Barry Memorial Tournament."

Juliet felt a chill run through her. This answered the question of whether Carlton knew, as well as when he knew. He'd won a damn shooting tournament in Lucinda's honor, and never said a word about it.

"Why?" More chips, more crunching. "You didn't know? I thought you guys were BFFs on those long stakeouts. Thought he'd have filled you in on all that already."

_He doesn't trust me enough_.

"Shut up, Shawn." She shoved her plate at him. "Go to town. I have to get back to work." She was halfway to the door before he even finished his mouthful of chips.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton strode up the steps into the station, tired from his trip but not willing to wait another moment to see Juliet, to look at her and judge whether she'd read the file.

Plus, he always wanted to see Juliet, and this had been a long three-plus days of thinking about her.

Sergeant Allen stopped him, holding out a wad of messages, and Buzz McNab slapped him on the shoulder to welcome him back, and Dobson said "Sorry I ate your cruller this morning" with a grin, and Chief Vick called him into her office as he passed.

He gave her a quick rundown of the success of his presentation, and while he was talking, Juliet came in behind him. He felt her before he saw her; Karen's glance beyond him was redundant. Still talking, he turned to glance at his partner, who was smiling.

Like she was glad to see him.

No different, really, from other smiles of greeting, but… his mood made it feel different. "O'Hara," he said. "Save me some cases?"

"Oh, sorry, no. I solved all the crime while you were gone. Cold cases and future crimes, too. We've got nothing for at least three months." Her dark blue eyes were luminous, lit by her smile, and she was lovely.

"So I've been holding you back by hanging around all these years," he suggested.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll _both_ find something to occupy your time," Karen Vick said with a smile of her own. "Welcome back, Carlton, and congratulations on a presentation well-done."

"I couldn't have done it without O'Hara saving my ass by sending those files."

"Well, that's why I keep you two partnered up." Her phone rang, which was their cue to leave.

Carlton walked with Juliet toward their desks. "Thanks again. I meant it about the coffee and ammo, you know."

"I know, partner. You always keep your word." Her arms were folded, and her expression was interesting. Not negative, just… interesting.

He sat in his chair, swiveling to face her. "What's on your mind?" Somehow he knew it wasn't about his log file, and even if it was, the odds of her bringing it up in the middle of the bullpen were pretty damned low.

"Just glad to see you," she finally said, a curious smile on her so-very-pretty face.

"I'm glad to see you too," he said without hesitation, although he was sure it was true for him in a different way.

"You want to have dinner tonight? So you can tell me all about the convention?"

Carlton blinked.

"Or are you too wiped out?"

His senses prickled.

"No, I'm… sure. Dinner's good." Puzzling, but good. "Just an ordinary convention, though."

"I don't get out much," she said lightly. "El Cielo okay?"

"Sure." He studied her, and she was still smiling in a completely non-threatening way.

Which meant he felt _completely_ threatened.

But like a moth to the flame… how the hell could he resist?

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Date Night, Sort Of

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . . **

**. . . **

_[contains __spoilers__ for "Santabarbaratown 2"]_

**. . . . **

**. . . **

He overheard a conversation between Juliet and Spencer.

It was about four o'clock, and Spencer came loping in sans Guster, heading for Juliet's desk. Carlton, before Spencer spotted him, picked up his phone and turned his chair slightly in the other direction; this usually worked to keep Pineapple Boy at bay. Besides, he had a few legitimate late-day calls to make.

But Juliet was Spencer's target anyway, and out of the corner of his eye, Carlton saw him settle on the edge of her desk. "Hey, future housemate. It's Friday and you know what that means!"

"You need to bring in the trash cans?" Her tone was bright. Carlton didn't trust it.

Spencer, however, was oblivious. "No, my little pushpin, it's date night!"

"Pushpin? You're using a small pointy item designed to affix items to bulletin boards as an endearment?"

"That's a thumbtack, Jules."

"Never mind. I can't tonight; I'm having dinner with Carlton."

Carlton was on hold with a forensics lab, and the Muzak was not enough to drown out their conversation. (If it had been, he'd have turned down the volume on his phone.)

He could feel Spencer's disbelieving gaze.

"Seriously? Okay, cool, I'll tag along and then," he added as he lowered his voice, "we can ditch him and go have some real fun."

Her tone iced over. "No, Shawn. You can't tag along. I'm having dinner with my partner, who's been out of town all week long, so we can catch up."

"Catch up on what?" he asked with clear disbelief. "He sat through some boring-ass meetings, probably ate all his meals in his room and played Angry Birds on his iPhone pretending they were squirrels while _Cops_ reruns were blaring in the background. Maybe _Forensic Files_. Did you know they renamed that show? It's called _Mystery Detectives_ now. Is that lame or what?"

If anything, her tone got chillier. "Shawn. Let's try this conversation again. You come in _after four _o'clock, say it's Date Night, I say too late, I already have plans, and you say oh I see, how about tomorrow?"

He looked at her suspiciously. "You want me to actually go out and come in again?"

She sighed heavily.

"Look, your dinner can't possibly take that long. Call me when you're done and I'll rescue you from the tedium."

At that, Carlton spun slowly in his chair, the phone still to his ear. It was just a dial tone now, but that didn't matter.

Juliet glanced at him and then back at Spencer. "Go. Away. Now."

Spencer followed her glance and glared at Carlton. "Fine day when the impending roommate gets rejected in favor of the crabby cop."

Carlton said loudly into the phone, "Hello, is this Cry Me A River, home of the World's Smallest Violins? I'd like to order the Teardrop 1000—that's the one Shoji Tabuchi used to play Whiny Ass Lovah, right?"

Juliet burst into laughter, and Carlton smirked. Replacing the receiver as Spencer scowled, he got up and walked away, sure that even if Juliet kept their dinner short to appease her boyfriend, he'd at least scored a point or two off the self-centered dork.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

El Cielo was crowded—it _was_ Date Night—but they were semi-regulars and the hostess found them a very small table at the back. It was hard to hear, so rather than sit across from him, Juliet took the chair at his left.

"Much better," she said. "Wow, this place is loud."

He didn't mind, because she was leaning in toward him and that was nice, since she smelled good and it was only a matter of time before she—or worse, Spencer—opened the Statler file and put an end to any dinners alone.

_Don't think about it_.

He started talking about the conference instead, about their mutual acquaintances in the field, and Juliet reacted as she always had, with interest or amusement or an eyeroll when called for. She asked questions, seemed to want the answers, and when he asked her about the week there in Santa Barbara, she readily told her own tales and kept him involved in the conversation.

She was just so… damned… _nice_, and she seemed to really… _like_ him, and he couldn't understand why except that familiarity breeds acceptance (not just contempt), or maybe it was "better the devil you know," but either way… he found her simply wonderful, pretty much all the time, and he regularly thanked God for having developed a pretty good poker face to hide how he felt.

Half-expecting her to wrap things up so she could go be with Spencer, he was surprised when the waiter tried to drop the check and Juliet said no, she wanted dessert, and did Carlton mind?

Not at all did he mind. The waiter went off with orders for sopapillas and flan, and Carlton settled back, comfortably full and relaxed.

"There is something else I wanted to talk to you about," she said quietly.

He stilled. "What is it?" _Was this it? __It__?_

"Jerry Carp. The night we took him down."

_Steady as she goes_.

"I think it was _you_ who took him down."

She smiled, tilting her head as she considered him. "I wouldn't have known to go over there if you hadn't texted me. And you wouldn't have known to text me unless you were in it up to your hips."

This was not their first go-round on the topic; she'd quizzed him the night it happened, and he'd lied as smoothly as it was possible to lie to this perceptive woman, saying Spencer must have had some outside help but it wasn't him. She didn't buy it, and made it abundantly clear she didn't buy it, but it was far too soon to come clean while there were still bodies to be moved and paperwork to be filed.

"Come on, Carlton. I want to know what I owe you."

He scowled. "You don't owe me anything. Why the hell would you think that?"

"You helped Shawn. Somehow I don't think that was entirely for him." She was leaning in close again, searching his face for answers he didn't want to give.

"He was out of control."

"Yes, he was."

"He was going to get himself or someone else killed."

"He was. We all knew it. But you stepped in—I just want to know how deeply."

Carlton finished off his beer and faced her squarely. "Why? What difference does it make? We got Carp. We took down Julian Drake. Spencer survived his own insanity and Henry's walking around today nearly good as new. _That_ was the point of all of it."

"It makes a difference to me. Because what you did to help Shawn helped me too."

He felt himself flushing; maybe the dim lighting would hide that. "Ripple effect."

Juliet smiled and put her hand on his forearm. "You don't have protect me. I _want_ to know it all. I already assume you acquired and planted the explosives and probably worked out the plan of attack. I know the bodyguards got sick—as sick as Gus—so I assume you screwed with their food—Shawn would never have done that; food is his god. I also know the lights were out for a while and Shawn _probably_ could have done that on his own but not without some guidance, someone to get him to focus. His way is to just run in and start talking everyone to death. What went down was a carefully orchestrated plan—a Lassiter-quality plan."

Carlton shook his head slightly.

"He was wearing a damned Kevlar vest, Carlton. That was _all_ you."

He sighed; there was no point in continuing the lie. "Okay, yeah. I helped him. I told him what to do and when to do it. I knew it wouldn't go that way because he was too spastic to do what he was told, but I figured having the plan would at least mean partial success." He glanced at her hand on his arm—it wasn't moving, and it wasn't holding him still; it just felt warm and calming. "He might still have gotten his head blown off, but without a little outside help, that was going to happen anyway."

Juliet was still gazing at him, and finally she sat back a bit and patted his arm before dropping her hand. "Thank you. I know you don't have any reason to think so, but you _can_ trust me."

"What are you talking about? I trust you, O'Hara. On and off the field, with my life and way the hell too many of my stupid-ass secrets."

It was one thing to have Statler suggest he didn't trust her—and he didn't see how the man could be right—but to hear her say it was fundamentally wrong. He would have to make them both _see_.

A flash of uncertainty—pain—crossed her face. "I just feel like I have a lot of lost ground to regain. A lot of ways I maybe made you feel like you weren't first, on the job and as my friend."

Carlton's chest tightened, and before he knew it, he'd reached out and grasped her upper arm. "O'Hara. Juliet. Listen to me. We've been partners a long time and we've had our differences but I'm still here, and I hope _you're_ still here, because we're a good team. I won't deny that your boyfriend causes me a hell of a lot of grief, and sometimes you're going to be tainted by what he does, but it doesn't affect my trust in _you_."

She lowered her head a moment, then gave him a faint smile, her eyes misty. "We're a _great_ team."

He smiled back and released her arm, and Juliet shocked the hell out of him by moving in rapidly to kiss his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, feeling a deep teenaged-boy-worthy blush.

The waiter returned with dessert plates and forks, and Juliet sampled her flan without answering him, but he was sure he saw some color in her cheeks too.

The feeling of those soft lips against his skin was still moving through his system, one glorious wave at a time.

"Because," she said. And then, so gently… "Would you tell me about Lucinda?"

Hell, she was going to kill him _yet_ tonight.

He took a slug of water, wishing it was beer, and tried to read her expression. "What would you like to know?"

"I heard… I heard she died. A year ago."

He swallowed. "Yeah. Car accident up around Napa."

"You didn't say anything." It wasn't accusatory, or even wistful; rather a quiet remark as if she weren't really surprised but wanted to say it anyway.

"We never talked about her before. I didn't really know… how to start a conversation about her after it was too late." He felt stiff.

"I'm sorry, you know. She was too young." Her gaze on her flan, she ventured further, "Did you keep in touch?"

The waiter reappeared with an offer to refill his beer and he gave a heartfelt yes.

To Juliet, he said, "No. We ran into each other at conferences now and then. But once she left here, we lost contact fast."

It wasn't completely intentional on his part, but he'd always suspected Lucinda's silence was deliberate. Before she left town, she said she didn't blame him for her ouster, and she didn't regret their affair, but… that was all. Just 'but.'

And he understood, too. Wounded as he was by the abrupt exposure of something he'd thought private and personal, wounded by a difficult and long-term separation he hadn't wanted, wounded by having his professional reputation—not to mention hers, which fact still shamed him—tarnished because of his _own_ failure… he understood 'but' in every language there was, and most especially the language of the heart.

"I wanted to blame Spencer for the whole debacle," he heard himself say, and Juliet looked at him intently. "For awhile, it worked."

"He didn't _have_ to out you publicly. There was no need for that."

"He was trying to avoid being arrested." _Where was that beer_… "But if it hadn't been him, someone else would have speculated. At least he did it fast and simple. It was over and she was gone before half the department even knew a thing. We barely got the case wrapped up before Vick shipped her out."

She rested her head in her hand while he accepted the fresh glass from the waiter, and watched him take a large swallow with that same faint smile. "Did you love her?"

Carlton set the glass down steadily.

"It's none of my business, I know."

He wanted to say _no it's not_ or _please don't make me talk about her_ or _I have to leave now_.

But it was Juliet, and she'd never asked before (he didn't count the short and tense conversation years ago when she started off by saying she didn't approve of interoffice romance), and Lucinda was gone and it was _Juliet_ asking. Juliet, whom he did trust with (most of) his secrets.

"I cared about her," he finally said. "I wanted her, because she was the first woman who'd wanted _me_ in a long time. I might have been a little in love with her. But it faded, because it wasn't real and it wasn't meant to be." After a moment, he amended himself. "No. It wasn't _supposed_ to be."

Juliet nodded thoughtfully, had another spoonful of flan, and demurred when he offered her some of the sopapilla.

"I don't want to move in with Shawn," she said, still quiet.

Carlton's senses were prickling, and he didn't want to make any sudden moves for fear she'd vanish. What the hell could he say?

"I don't know how to get out of it yet, but I know I can't do it." She turned her solemn face to his again. "I'm not ready for parenthood, and living with Shawn would be like taking on a toddler. I don't have time for it, I don't want to be the one who pays all the bills, and…" She sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking."

He struggled for the right thing to say. "It's not what you were thinking; it's what you were thinking _with_: your heart."

Juliet smiled. "I guess so. Thank you for telling me about Lucinda."

Another pendulum swing, then. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Don't be. It's enough that you didn't shoot me down when I mentioned her name. I call that progress."

"Cheers, then," he suggested, ready to get back to safer ground for both of them, and raised his glass to bump hers. "To progress."

Her eyes alight, she drank as deeply as he did, and he thought he could do a lot worse for himself than belong, heart and soul, to a woman like Juliet O'Hara.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Over the weekend, Juliet reflected on her dinner with Carlton. It had lasted well beyond dessert, because she simply wasn't ready to go home. She drew him into further conversation despite knowing he must have been tired from his travels, although he didn't seem to want the evening to end any more than she did.

Her sessions with Dr. Gentry made her question briefly whether she'd wanted to prolong their… _connection_… because she wanted to avoid Shawn. It also made her question whether Carlton's motivation was merely to show Shawn up after the mini-contretemps at the station earlier.

But… what she'd read in the log, as well as what she saw in Carlton's manner and his vivid blue eyes, told her plainly that he enjoyed her company and wanted to be there.

It was flattering, true. Dr. Gentry would ask her if her ego was at work.

Therefore, she'd have to confess she found it increasingly difficult _not_ to stare into Carlton's gorgeous eyes, the longer they talked and the more they drank, and although she didn't dare touch him again, not so much as a hand to his arm, she felt as if somehow they were closer in that crowded restaurant than they'd ever been before.

Crazy, of course. Fire-playing-with in a big way. She no more needed to let herself fall—forget _fall_, she couldn't even afford to _lean_—for her partner than she needed to move in with Shawn. Shawn the Boyfriend.

Shawn the Soon-To-Be-Ex-Boyfriend.

_Shouldn't you really take care of that little problem first? Ending the relationship it took over five years to get off the ground in the first place_?

Dr. Gentry would probably go on to ask if her need to smooth her relationship with Carlton—to earn his trust, to make him understand he had hers, fully—was making her consider him in a way she might not otherwise, given the Shawn Issue.

He might even suggest again that she talk to Shawn. Really talk to him. Find out what level of commitment he was really making, down to rent-sharing and bill-paying and grocery-shopping and lawn-mowing.

And she would not be able to argue with such a suggestion.

While she knew without a doubt that any attempt at joint therapy with Shawn would be an absolute waste of everyone's time, did she not owe him a chance to…

To what? Lie? Be someone he wasn't? Do twenty years' worth of growing up in a week?

Carlton was damaged but he was also _whole_. He was a man. He was a full-fledged man who valued her and respected her and supported her, and while "perfect" would never be part of any description of his psyche (his eyes, yes; those were perfect), he was imperfect in ways which suited her fine.

_You can't just feel this way because you know he cares for you. Don't be so shallow._

Her shallow side shivered: _but he's a damned good-lookin' man, embarrassed as he'd be to have you say that. The eyes, the lean build, the tantalizing glimpse of chest hair, the long graceful fingers, the sense of contained strength and speed… Lawdy, he was delicious_.

(That particular thought came along Friday night while she was still tipsy from dinner and dessert and talking and drinking and more talking and drinking.)

(Though it still rang true on Sunday afternoon when she was stone cold sober.)

Just slow down, she told herself firmly. _Slow down_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton emailed Dr. Statler on Saturday to see if he could 'chat' with him first thing Monday morning.

It meant he skipped his morning run so he could be at his laptop at 5:30, three hours behind the east-coast doctor.

_CL: I feel like an idiot adolescent with a crush.  
__StatlerPsyD: Is this the reason for the early-morning conversation?  
__CL: Yes.  
__StatlerPsyD: I take it something happened since our last chat?  
__CL: I got home. She wanted to have dinner to catch up. She even put the asshat off in my favor.  
__StatlerPsyD: She hadn't seen you in a week, and you *are* close.  
__CL: He didn't like it.  
__StatlerPsyD: Are you smirking?  
__CL: You can't see that.  
__StatlerPsyD: You're smirking. How was dinner?  
__CL: Phenomenal.  
__StatlerPsyD: Specifics, please? My coffee hasn't kicked in.  
__CL: We must have spent three hours there, just talking. The waiter thought we were a couple.  
__StatlerPsyD: You obviously feel this was different from other meals out. I'm sure over the years you've had countless dinners.  
__CL: Yeah, but this… yeah, this felt different. She asked me about my former partner. That's never happened before.  
__StatlerPsyD: Interesting. What made her bring it up?  
__CL: She found out Lucinda died a year ago.  
__StatlerPsyD: I recall we spoke about your affair with Lucinda a few weeks ago, but you never mentioned her death. Was Lucinda still in your life in any way?  
__CL: No. That was all over, like it was fifty years ago and happened to other people.  
__StatlerPsyD: What was your partner's attitude when she asked?  
__CL: Careful. She didn't ask me why I didn't tell her.  
__StatlerPsyD: What kind of answers did you give her?  
__CL: The truth. It's hard to lie to her.  
__StatlerPsyD: It should be hard to lie to everyone.  
__CL: You know what I mean. She also told me she doesn't want to move in with the asshat. She didn't say much but it was pretty obvious that ship's taking on water.  
__StatlerPsyD: What are you going to do?  
__CL: What do you mean? I'm not going to do anything. It's got nothing to do with me.  
__StatlerPsyD: That is a correct response, although in your case I suspect it's motivated by fear rather than common sense.  
__CL: Thanks for the vote of confidence.  
__StatlerPsyD: When I tell a lie, you'll call me on it.  
__CL: Pffffffbbthhtppt.  
__StatlerPsyD: That's what I thought. Did any trust issues happen to come up in this three-hour conversation?  
__CL: Yeah. She said I could trust her even if I didn't think I could, and I said I trusted her completely. And I do, Statler. We've discussed this.  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes we have, and our last conversation brought the conclusion that you trust everything except her personal relationship with you, because ultimately you don't trust yourself.  
__CL: I think you're rewriting things.  
__StatlerPsyD: How would you restate it?  
__CL: The way you said it originally. That my trust issues revolve around her relationship with the asshat.  
__StatlerPsyD: Sounds the same to me.  
__CL: Did I mention I don't like you?  
__StatlerPsyD: Never. Why did she say she thought you couldn't trust her?  
__CL: We were talking about a case involving the asshat.  
__StatlerPsyD: Hmmm.  
__CL: Hmmm what?  
__StatlerPsyD: It just seems odd she'd phrase it that way *now.*_

Carlton stiffened, staring at the screen.

_StatlerPsyD: But then again, it came up during the prank call incident, so perhaps the timing means nothing.  
__CL: Fine. Give me a heart attack and then take it back.  
__StatlerPsyD: Well, if the expression of this fear *was* prompted by her reading of our first chat, it certainly sounds as if your dinner was something she enjoyed and engaged in of her own free will. Regardless of whether she is receptive to your feelings, I believe she is making her trust in you and her personal regard for you as friend and partner very clear. I assume she doesn't normally volunteer private details of her life with her boyfriend?  
__CL: It's pretty rare. Thank God.  
__StatlerPsyD: So if she read the log, her reaction is not in the 70% negative range you predicted.  
__CL: 29% neutral, then.  
__StatlerPsyD: As you wish. Have you arrived at an answer to my question from the other night? About what you'll do if you find out she did read the log?  
__CL: That wasn't the question. And yeah, now I see YOU smirking. The question was what I would do if her reaction was negative.  
__StatlerPsyD: And the answer?_

Evaporate. Leave town. Become a monk. Live with monkeys. Fling poo at tourists, especially those with too much gel in their hair.

Give up the ludicrous idea of ever loving anyone else, and leave town, because he was already essentially a monk, and he'd practically been living with monkeys all these years with Spencer and Guster.

_StatlerPsyD: CL?  
__CL: Give up.  
__StatlerPsyD: Is that your advice to me on this line of questioning?  
__CL: No. It's what I'd do. I'd give up hope and move on.  
__StatlerPsyD: Hmmm. Okay. Now we know your answer, I can get to work changing your mind.  
__CL: Yeah, right. People don't change my mind once it's made up, Statler.  
__StatlerPsyD: Really?  
__CL: Really.  
__StatlerPsyD: You changed your mind about the value of therapy. You changed your mind about whether you would throw your partner to the wolves if the boyfriend kept pranking you. You changed your mind about whether you could even keep working with your partner after the original upset over a year ago. Maybe people can't change your mind—but YOU can.  
__CL: And when there's no point?  
__StatlerPsyD: That's when my work gets interesting. :-)  
__CL: I don't like you.  
__StatlerPsyD: You'll be in touch in a few days.  
__CL: I don't like you.  
__CL: But I'll be in touch in a few days._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7: Hide In Plain Sight

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was supposed to go house-hunting with Shawn on Monday afternoon. She'd cleared the time off with Chief Vick, and Shawn was coming to pick her up (meaning, Gus would drop him off and they'd go in her car) at noon. Lunch first, then long agonizing hours of trying to find a rental property they'd both like.

Buying a house was never an option. Shawn wasn't interested—the man had lived in hundreds of apartments in the past fifteen years; no way was the permanency of home ownership his thing—and she knew better anyway. Even when she fancied herself still in love with him, she knew it was risky thinking they'd split all the costs halfway. Rental was the only choice.

But as noon drew nearer, and the quiet man at the desk across the aisle from her continued to persistently invade her every other thought, Juliet just couldn't cope with the idea of continuing with the farce.

And it _was_ a farce: she needed to woman up and do something about it.

Slipping her phone into her jacket pocket, she left the bullpen and headed for the alcove by the main entrance. Calling Shawn (it was after eleven; he _should_ be awake by now), she was delighted to get his voicemail. "Hey, Shawn, we got busy here today. I don't think I can house-hunt after all. Reschedule?"

She sent a similarly-worded text, and was re-pocketing the phone when she saw Shawn and Gus out in the parking lot.

_Crap, and frankly, it serves you right. _

Wait… Gus appeared to be coming in with him. They paused in the lot to consult a map Gus held, and Shawn opened up what appeared to be a real estate guide. They argued, pointing to spots on the map.

Uh… did Shawn think Gus was going to _accompany_ them on a house-hunting trip?

"Oh, hell to the no, he's not," she muttered. Even though she didn't even want to live with Shawn anymore, for damn sure he had no right to bring a third party into the selection process for a place they would never share.

Turning, she rapidly returned to the bullpen and went straight to Carlton's desk. "Favor. Please. Now. I need an excuse to work this afternoon. Don't we have something really complicated which needs our immediate attention?"

His startled blue eyes focused on her, processing what he was hearing, and his initial frown faded. "We _always_ have something complicated which needs our immediate attention, O'Hara."

From down by Booking, they could already hear Shawn, but she kept her back resolutely to the source.

Carlton grinned, got up and grabbed his jacket. "Come on. I think we need to use the rear exit."

Profoundly grateful, she followed—having no trouble today keeping up with his long-legged stride—and they ended up on the far side of the station.

"Can we get to the Crown Vic without being seen?" he asked, peering around the corner of the building.

"_You_ can be seen." She felt lighter and free now. "Go get it and swing back here to pick me up."

He fist-bumped her and took off, and Juliet knew she was a scaredy-cat wimp but didn't care: she just couldn't deal with Shawn today, and surely she was entitled to some ridiculous behavior now and then.

Once he'd collected her—she felt so utterly safe with him at her side—Carlton headed further inland. "We can go check on some of my informants, or follow up on one of your cases from last week. Wasn't the witness in the Campoli case a chef in a restaurant we haven't been to yet?"

Juliet laughed. "Yes, yes he was! Thank you so much. I know I'm an idiot but—" She stopped, because her phone was ringing: Shawn. "Uh-oh. Gotta lie now." Into the phone she gave a falsely bright, "Hey, Shawn, I'm so sorry."

"Jules, what gives? Gus got special permission to have the afternoon off for this."

Irritation hit her in one big wave. "Oh? I thought you and I were supposed to go house-hunting."

"That's what I'm talking about."

"So what did _Gus_ need the time off for?"

Beside her, she saw Carlton shaking his head, but he kept his scowl to a minimum.

"Uh, don't you think Gus should have a say in this too?"

_Keep cool. Keep cool._ "Why? He's got his own place, and now a girlfriend who has _her_ own place."

"But it's Gus." He lowered his voice, probably moving out of the BFF's earshot. "He has to be there."

"Shawn, you can't really think it's fair to bring your childhood buddy in to help choose a place for you to live with your _girlfriend_. But hey, I'll tell you what. I'll bring Carlton along and they can both help us choose."

"That's so wrong," he practically yelled, but she was distracted by Carlton's muffled laughter.

"Again, _why_?" She could play innocent too. "You bring your best friend, I bring _mine_. Makes sense to me. Only I can't today, because we're chasing down a new lead and I really can't talk now. We'll pick another day. Maybe Carlton and Gus can compare schedules to see what works best for them to join us. Bye now," she sang, and disconnected with a vicious punch to the button.

"Oh my ever-loving God." Carlton had stopped at a red light, and turned to stare at her quizzically. "Seriously?"

"There's no point in being surprised by anything anymore."

And yet there was a time—hell, even a month ago—when she'd have accepted Shawn's inconsiderate behavior as just another part of the Spencer Experience. All the more reason to be grateful she had Dr. Gentry now to help figure out what the hell was wrong with her.

No… what had _been_ wrong with her. She was already sure she was heading out of the 'danger zone,' and it wasn't only because of her realizations about Carlton.

"Why don't _they_ live together?" He got the car moving again. "Hell, they should just get married."

Juliet laughed. "They really should. I don't know why they don't live together except Shawn doesn't like to feel trapped and Gus seems to draw the line at being mooched off of in his own home."

"If he doesn't like to feel trapped, what makes him think he can commit to sharing a house with you?"

The question was without emphasis, and she'd asked it of herself many times before. "Well, he won't have to," she said quietly. "I meant what I said on Friday night. I just need to work up the courage to tell him."

Carlton glanced at her, and she could feel the intensity of those blue eyes without even really looking at him. "You will, O'Hara."

She gave him a smile, and reached out to touch his arm. "Thanks. But you know, I think Gus should adopt him instead. Better tax breaks."

His grin was worth everything, she thought, as he whisked her off to an early lunch at the posh restaurant her witness worked in. After that, they spent a rather lovely afternoon talking to half a dozen people about the case. Carlton was up to speed in no time and they agreed two of the witnesses were most likely involved and worth a closer look. She might have gotten there on her own last week, she reflected, if she hadn't been so distracted by what she'd read in the log file.

Juliet suspected Carlton wouldn't call the afternoon 'lovely' per se, but she knew he really liked it when they operated in perfect sync like this, and _she_ was having a most excellent time, because she was doing the job she loved with the best partner—the best tall, lean, blue-eyed acerbic Irish partner—a silly-ass muddle-headed woman could ever want.

Who was also, she understood, a man she was falling for.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_CL: It's getting worse.  
__StatlerPsyD: What is?  
__CL: There's something going on with her regarding the asshat and she's turning to me, for lack of a better phrase.__  
__StatlerPsyD: So what's getting worse?  
__CL: . . .__  
__StatlerPsyD: I think we've previously established that's not a helpful response, CL.  
__CL: I just want you to know I'm still here.__  
__StatlerPsyD: Don't worry, the status bar at the bottom of the screen tells me you're still here. So what's getting worse?  
__CL: How I feel.__  
__StatlerPsyD: What do you feel?  
__CL: Other than irritation for you?__  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes. Always other than irritation for me.  
__CL: Dammit, my stupid CRUSH is getting worse.  
__StatlerPsyD: Ah, so you've decided it's only a crush now?__  
__CL: I want it to be. You can get over a crush.  
__StatlerPsyD: What makes you think it could be merely a crush now and not actual love?__  
__CL: What the hell do I know about love? I'm divorced and haven't had a date in longer than I can remember.  
__StatlerPsyD: What does anyone know about love? Have you asked anyone on a date in the past six months?  
__CL: No.  
__StatlerPsyD: Why?__  
__CL: Waste of time.  
__StatlerPsyD: Why?_

_StatlerPsyD: CL, you've been married and you've had other relationships. Obviously you can attract women. Why is it a waste of time?  
__CL: Because I don't want anyone else.  
__StatlerPsyD: Ah. And you still think it's only a crush?  
__CL: Stop screwing with me.  
__StatlerPsyD: I'm doing no such thing: I'm merely asking you to defend your position. Can we give your partner a name? It doesn't have to be hers if you want to maintain total privacy. But something other than 'your partner' would be nice to refer to her by.  
__CL: Juliet. It's her real name.  
__StatlerPsyD: Pretty. Fitting.  
__CL: How so?  
__StatlerPsyD: You present yourself as a hardened loner, so it's fitting the object of your affections would have a name conjuring up youth and prettiness and a loving heart.  
__CL: The original Juliet was an idiotic teenager who killed herself over her idiotic boyfriend.  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes, do keep matters in perspective. Anyway, let's go back to the beginning. You said it was getting worse. What happened since yesterday morning?  
__CL: She called upon me to rescue her from the asshat, who by the way, you may continue to call Asshat.  
__StatlerPsyD: Rescue her?  
__CL: She wanted to break their plans to house-hunt and asked me to help her hide. But we had a really good afternoon—I mean, really good. We were just working on a case. But.  
__StatlerPsyD: But?  
__CL: But it felt like all the best work we'd ever done, amped up by ten. And I'm sure she felt the same way. I'm sure.  
__StatlerPsyD: Why?__  
__CL: I seem to be doing all the work here, doc.  
__StatlerPsyD: To understand, interpret and evaluate your situation, I have to know what happened. You leave out a lot unless I press you. What makes you sure the feeling was mutual?__  
__CL: Dammit. It was in her eyes, the way she stood closer to me than usual, the way she reacted to funny things I said. All that.  
__StatlerPsyD: Okay. You left out one detail.__  
__CL: How the hell would you know that?  
__StatlerPsyD: Not whatever you think you left out. I'm talking about the detail I caught which you didn't enunciate: she *trusted* you to rescue her.__  
__CL: . . .  
__StatlerPsyD: If I may: heheheh.__  
__CL: Look, you bastard, I'm dying here. She says she doesn't want to live with the asshat and I think she also intends to break it off with him though she hasn't put it in so many words. I'm falling faster and deeper than I thought was possible and I don't like it.  
__StatlerPsyD: You don't like it?  
__CL: I hate it. I hate knowing I'm going to crash-land into one of the circles of hell.__  
__StatlerPsyD: Why do you assume you will?  
__CL: BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T LOVE ME.__  
__StatlerPsyD: Capslock stuck?  
__CL: She doesn't love me. She can't. She won't ever.  
__StatlerPsyD: You know, the more I think about it, the timing of this renewed closeness is very interesting.  
__CL: Stop it.  
__StatlerPsyD: I apologize; I don't mean to lead you on. Women are indeed the most mysterious of creatures. It IS entirely possible that she is only seeing you as a distraction from her current relationship; that she knows she can count on you, her friend, to help her through a bad time; that she is turning to you because she *trusts* she can. It is quite possible she does NOT have romantic feelings for you, simply because in all the preceding years—and she wasn't always with the boyfriend, correct?—she didn't.  
__CL: So you agree I'm insane to have hope.  
__StatlerPsyD: No, you relentlessly pessimistic fellow. I'm saying this: current worst-case scenario, you are extremely important to Juliet. It may not be the precise way in which you want to be important, and it may not ever be more than it is now. But you must not further doubt that her feelings of friendship, trust and connection with you are real and valid.  
__CL: . . .  
__StatlerPsyD: . . .  
__CL: Okay.  
__StatlerPsyD: So now you work through what you can live with.  
__CL: Is THAT all.  
__StatlerPsyD: No, there's more. We also have to get you to analyze why you don't think you're worthy of her love, or presumably the love of any other woman.  
__CL: When the hell did I say I wasn't worthy?  
__StatlerPsyD: Please hold while I punch up the last ten hours of our chats.__  
__CL: [insert curse word here]  
__StatlerPsyD: You might try Googling "dictionary of swear words" for many helpful resources.__  
__CL: I'm outta here.  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes, I thought you might be. Come back soon.__  
_

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Halfway through that Tuesday morning, Juliet brought Carlton a venti from Starbucks along with a cream cheese Danish. She'd been out for a while, to an unspecified appointment, which he assumed was something to do with women which he didn't really want to know about.

As she handed him the treasures, he felt damnably warm, smiling up at her fresh and lovely face. "What's the occasion?"

She sat in the chair by his desk. "It's a thank you for yesterday. For rescuing me."

He sipped the coffee. "I had a good time." It sounded odd to his ears. _You were working, doofus, not on a date._

But Juliet smiled. "So did I. And we did great work, didn't we? I started the deeper background checks on Quarters and Travis."

"My money's on Quarters." He broke a piece of the Danish off and tasted its sweetness, and it seemed to him that Juliet's gaze was on his fingers.

_No blushing._

"See, I'm thinking Travis. His hair's too… _maintained_ for him to be fully legit."

"That explains Spencer, then." He couldn't resist it, and she was amused. "Sorry. Did he get over being passed over yesterday?"

Juliet shrugged. "We talked a little last night. I said he was out of line to try to bring Gus along and then instead of being an adult, I avoided rescheduling and said I had to get to bed early."

He felt a little sorry for her; no way could it be easy to extricate herself from a relationship with someone like Spencer. "You're working up to it, O'Hara. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Sighing, she glanced over at her desk, and then back to him, meeting his gaze with a troubled expression. "I don't have a lot of time left. His lease is up in three weeks."

"You'll do it," he assured her. "Or you'll figure out it's only cold feet."

_Well, where the hell did _that_ come from?_

She laughed. "Wow. Kinda early in the day for crazy talk from _you_, partner."

He hoped it _was_ crazy talk, and her tone was certainly firm enough. "I'm sure it'll pass as soon as I have more of this coffee."

"Hope so," she teased. "People will talk."

_Better to talk about me being crazy than about me being hopelessly hooked on my partner._

McNab loped up to the two of them. "Detectives? We got a report of an abandoned vehicle with Guster's license plates."

"Abandoned where?" Carlton asked immediately, seeing Juliet's immediate worry.

"Two hikers called it in," McNab said, and gave the location. "Thought you'd like to know. We haven't sent anyone up there yet since they… um…"

"Since they go to all kinds of places for no good reason," Juliet finished. She looked at Carlton. "What do you think?"

He read in her eyes, if nothing else, genuine concern for her friends… for people he accepted were even his friends. "Call Spencer," he said. "I'll call Guster. If we can't reach them, we'll head out."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8: What Happened In The Woods

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

[_A/N: __**GIGANTIC**__ spoilers for "Lassie Jerky" ahead. I began plotting this story long before the episode aired, but it turned out to fit so perfectly with what I had in mind that I **had** to harvest its partnershippy goodness. One deviation is that in my world Marlowe doesn't exist, so she won't be mentioned here. Also: please note that the next episode, "No Country For Two Old Men" is absolutely utterly ridiculous for showing Carlton walking around in perfect shape *one week* after the events of LJ. Two minutes of Googling proved that; too bad the writers for NCFTOM didn't take the time. Not that I'm bitter. Let's move on, shall we?]_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

There was a green fish in the tank, shimmying alongside an orange and white clownfish. She hadn't noticed it during her other visits. The green had a blue cast to it, giving the fish iridescence as it swam dreamily alongside its companion.

When Juliet met with Dr. Gentry on Tuesday morning, she'd still been trying to clarify exactly what she felt for Carlton, as well as why what she _had_ felt for Shawn was so quickly receding. She told him about their discussion of Lucinda on Friday night, and that she'd confessed she didn't want to move in with Shawn. She touched on how utterly connected she felt to Carlton—and how she'd wanted more.

He had counseled her not to rush into any judgment, reminding her that coming out of one difficult relationship—which was still technically ongoing—and immediately contemplating another—which was still technically unformed—wasn't doing right by either one, or herself.

This Friday morning, things were a lot different. Including the green-with-a-touch-of-blue fish.

Dr. Gentry, calm and observant as ever, remarked, "If you'll pardon my saying so, you look a bit wilted, and it's only 9 a.m."

"I feel wilted," she admitted. "A lot's happened since Tuesday, and not much of it included any sleep."

"Regarding the men in your life?"

_You could say that._

Juliet composed herself. "When I get a free moment, I'm ending it with Shawn. I feel like I'm standing on a mountain looking down at my past with him and I don't know how any of it happened. As for Carlton, he's in the hospital."

The doctor's dark brows went up. "I'm sorry to hear that. Why?"

She beat back the worry and vestiges of fear she still felt for him. "He was shot in the shoulder, and took a bear trap to the leg. He'll be out of commission for a long time. If he's a persistent son of a bitch—wait, let me rephrase that. He _is_ a persistent son of a bitch, so he'll probably go back to work much too soon, but it'll only be desk duty—and it won't be for weeks and weeks yet at the earliest."

"This sounds bad. How serious was the gunshot wound?"

_Too serious. Too heart-stoppingly serious. _

_Look at the aquarium if you can't look at the doctor._

"I'm sure you have enough medical knowledge to know you don't just shake off a gunshot wound like they do on TV. Thank God the bullet didn't hit bone or a joint but it'll take months of rehab to get the muscles working properly again. It's too soon to know the full extent of the damage."

Hmm, there might have been just the slightest quaver to her voice.

Dr. Gentry swiveled in his chair, resting his arms on his desk. "Okay, I can see you're trying to hold it together, but in this room, you don't _have_ to hold anything together. Tell me what happened."

Deep, shaky breath. She hadn't allowed herself any time to really think about any of this, and certainly no time to simply _react_ to it.

He added, "One trick I use is to ask the patient relay the story purely factually the first time, leaving out the attached emotions."

Given the number of police reports she'd filled out over the years, she should be able to do that.

She described their drive up to find Gus' car. There were no GPS signals for their phones, so they'd either been disabled, or they were so far into the forest as to be out of range of any cell towers. This was the most likely, Carlton assured her. He knew the woods all too well.

They tramped through the damp green-grey depths, with Carlton becoming more irritated by the minute. She knew he was there _for her_, and she knew he was perfectly able to handle himself in this environment, but in a suit and tie he wasn't at his best here.

Truthfully, she was a little irritated too. Something _could_ be very wrong, but then again, it was Shawn and Gus.

Shawn and Gus, who were busy stuffing their faces with cold nachos when she and Carlton and Chief Vick finally got inside the Psych office after the land mine had been removed during the Carp case. These were not common-sense guys. They might just be up there doing something completely stupid, and would be startled to think anyone might worry about them.

Dr. Gentry's eyebrows went up again when she explained why Kate and Chavo were in the forest, and how their discovery of the then-missing bodies focused everyone's attention sharply.

It was much harder to describe Carlton's obvious agony when the bear trap snapped shut around his leg. She still didn't understand why she'd stood there in puzzlement so long.

He asked her to think it through.

"Maybe… maybe it was because… Carlton doesn't show pain. He rarely even shows any kind of fear. The idea that he was in actual extreme pain was so unthinkable that I couldn't figure out what he was doing, or whether it was some incomprehensible joke, the kind Shawn might try. Then he went crashing down the hill into the river…" She stopped, taking another breath.

"Stay calm. Stick to the facts," he reminded her.

She had finally gone into action: her partner was in trouble. It was embarrassing to her that Shawn moved first once Carlton started to tumble, but she quickly came to her senses and outran him, yelling to Carlton that _she_ was on the way.

It was incredibly difficult to emotionlessly describe getting him out of the raging icy water, getting the bear trap off his bloody leg, trying to ease his pain with almost nonexistent medical supplies Kate and Chavo had brought. Trying not to see how much pain he was hiding, yet knowing he was admitting more to her than anyone else and then seeing Chavo callously filming the whole thing.

Soaking wet, tired, hurting and freezing cold, her partner still managed to pull himself together when they made plans to make camp, and she knew he needed her above all to believe he was up to the task—if only because he knew they had to put the safety of "the herd" first.

She had checked on him once, and while it was obvious the bleeding hadn't completely stopped, he assured her he was fine and sent her back to the others, where she found them making enough of a musical racket to get them all killed. It was necessary to stay close to them after that, because they were idiots, and she wasn't even going to say a word about sex fiendess Kate.

The blue fish came to the front of the tank, darting briefly toward the green fish and then back to the front, as if waiting for Juliet to continue.

"At dawn, Carlton was gone."

Here, she brushed an unexpected tear from her cheek, and a few more as she told Dr. Gentry what Carlton said about her on camera—"the best partner"—in the moments before he passed out and was carried off by some large, dark and far too menacing form.

Dr. Gentry told her to take a moment, but she couldn't, because she was freshly angry at the attitude Shawn and the others immediately took that Carlton was dead.

Dr. Gentry told her to take another moment. Facts, he said.

But she couldn't get through the next _factually_ either. She couldn't get through her anger at the others and her fear for Carlton and her desperate need to find him and her realization that no one had _ever_ really prepared her for losing her partner and her determination that Wednesday was damned well not going to be the day because she still had to tell him she loved him.

And those damned cameras. She wanted to smash the one Shawn kept in his hand—the one _Carlton_ of all people had saved from the raging river while he clung for his _life_ to a tree limb.

They found the cabin, and thank God, her Carlton was inside, but she couldn't go to him because she had to be sure the place was secure for the others, the callous, heartless others who speculated idly about whether Carlton was even alive. She couldn't bring herself to repeat the colossally insensitive remark Shawn made while they stared aghast at the meat roasting outside the cabin.

Her rage made her hit the table, and that woke Carlton, and his smile of surprise and joy seemed just for her and dear God, she'd wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him, to look into those vivid blue eyes and give him her heart but no, because of Shawn and the camera and Chavo and the camera and all the damned cameras and having to be the freaking adult who kept everything freaking together instead of crawling into Carlton's lap and holding on forever.

For a minute she stopped talking and just breathed.

"So yeah," she managed, "I love him."

The doctor smiled. "I see that. Go on when you're ready."

_Go on when you're ready. Right._

Most of the next part she could be emotionless about. Meeting "Big Ed," figuring out what was going on and that the Serbs were likely coming for them. Knowing Carlton—even with a significant limp and in a lot of pain—was working at full capacity to back her up.

Everything happened fast: Kate and Chavo down. Gus shrieking helplessly.

When she heard the gunshot from inside the cabin, followed by Carlton's cry of pain, everything went black for a second. She yelled out his name, and it was honestly an afterthought to call for Shawn next, but he and Gus were in the cabin too and all of them were hers to look after.

She got inside and saw Carlton slumped over at the window.

She also saw two bodies—Big Ed's and one of the Serbs—and she saw Gus cowering and Shawn nearly-cowering.

But mostly she saw Carlton, slumped over and silent, blood all over his shirt.

She rushed to his side through some kind of quicksand—she felt like JoBeth Williams running down the lengthening hallway in _Poltergeist_—grasping his good arm with both shaking hands, pleading with him to talk to her—_come on, Carlton_—and if it weren't for Shawn following with that despicable camera…

_Deep breaths._

Carlton spoke to her, and she just about collapsed. Holding on to his arm, she felt as if her incapacitated partner was still somehow supporting _her_, and that was _so_ Carlton, so very much like him, and damn Shawn and the camera for stopping her from kissing Carlton's weary face.

"If I wasn't sure before, I was sure then," she told Dr. Gentry. "You could put it down to adrenalin and shock and fear but… it's not."

The green fish joined the blue fish, and they bobbed up and down briefly, brushing the plastic grass beneath them. It almost looked like a nod of approval.

"This kind of traumatic event can bring a lot into focus," he agreed calmly. "But that wasn't the end of the day, was it?"

"No. We got Carlton onto the sofa and stopped the bleeding, we got the one remaining Serb tied up, and then I looked Shawn in the eyes and told him that whether he went alone or with Gus, he had to go get help. We had three gunshot victims and I wasn't going to leave them alone and he had to _focus_, search Big Ed's cabin to find a map showing the ranger station, and get the hell gone."

She still remembered her urge to punctuate her words with smacks to the head.

"Gus decided to stay with me," she continued with relative calm. "He can run faster than Shawn, which isn't really a compliment when his speed is fueled by fear, but his background in pharmaceuticals gives him a passing knowledge of basic human health care, so even though he's terrified of blood he could at least keep watch over Kate and Chavo while I stayed with Carlton." She met the doctor's nonjudgmental gaze. "Not that anyone was going to stop me staying with Carlton."

"Was he still conscious?"

"In and out. Lot of pain." Juliet swallowed. "There just wasn't much I could do for him except hold his hand and keep the bleeding under control. Shawn showed up in just over an hour with the rangers and some real medics and I don't know what happened but suddenly I was trying to kick that Serbian's ass. He was like three feet taller than me and I probably barely made an impression on him but I just… I was…"

"You were furious," Dr. Gentry supplied.

"Yes. I was furious. _He_ didn't shoot Carlton. He might not even have shot Kate or Chavo. But he was one of _them_. One of the ones who nearly took Carlton from me. And I couldn't hold it together anymore, not one more second. I needed to punch someone in the gut, Doctor, and what that says about me as a person, I don't know, but there it is."

"Mostly, Juliet, it says you're human. You were in a state of shock and rage and in the throes of fear, and adrenalin was roaring through your system."

"Roaring," she agreed, reflecting. "That's what it felt like. Roaring. The rangers pulled him away from me—kind of a compliment, really." She gave him a faint grin. "They probably saw the crazy in my eyes. And then I went straight to Carlton. He was on a gurney and they were about to carry him over to the jeep and he held his hand out to me and I took it and we held on to each other. That's what it felt like. Like we were holding on to each other. There he was on a stretcher being carried by two big burly guys and it's like there wasn't anyone else around at all. But I couldn't look at him. I walked beside the stretcher, but I couldn't look at him."

"Why not?"

Did the fish understand? They'd moved back from the glass, and her attention went to a yellow striped fish lazily circling the plastic diver, who was draped in a tiny set of purple and green Mardi Gras beads.

"Because he'd know."

"He'd know what?"

Juliet sighed. "He'd know I was about to fall apart. He'd know I loved him and he'd be afraid of it and I didn't want him to be afraid, not then. Gunshot wound, ripped-up leg—that was enough. He didn't need anything else on his mind. He didn't need to worry about me. He only needed to see I was there, I was strong, and I was with him. That I would always be with him."

Dr. Gentry nodded. "You said he held out his hand to you. From what you've said, I didn't think he was a demonstrative person."

"He's not, really. He's always been very professional at work and very careful not to cross any lines. It's kind of drummed into us as employees, and I think he was determined not to attract the kind of attention the exposure of his affair with Lucinda brought him. And, you know, maybe he wasn't reaching for me. Maybe he was just going to fist-bump me or something. Or just wanted a firm handshake of appreciation."

The doctor laughed. "I've never met him and I wasn't there but somehow I doubt he had a handshake on his mind. He was under the same influences you were: shock, fear, rage, adrenalin. The same influences which made him say on camera that you're the best partner he ever had. He had to have been watching you hold everything and everyone together, and if we assume his feelings for you are still what they were at the time of the log file you read, then to take your hand would have been a gift he was giving to _both_ of you."

Sinking back against the chair cushions, Juliet let a myriad of sensations wash over her. Foremost among them were relief that Carlton was all right: badly dented but all right, and a flat certainty that her feelings for him were real and lasting and surpassed everything she'd ever thought she felt for Shawn.

"Your tropical fish. Do they get a cut of your fees?"

He laughed again. "The best fish food money can buy. How is Carlton now, and what are your plans for Shawn?"

"Carlton had surgery Wednesday night for his shoulder and some work done on his leg yesterday. He's groggy when he's awake, pissed off when he's not groggy, and out cold the rest of the time. I'm on leave at least partway through next week pending a standard departmental psych eval, but I intend to spend as much time as I can with him. Somewhere in there, however, I need to talk to Shawn."

"And what do you intend to tell him?"

"I intend to break it off."

"So I gathered," he said mildly, "but I meant how are you going to handle it?"

"I don't know."

"That's honest. Are you prepared for every contingency?"

"Dr. Gentry, I'm prepared for nothing other than walking away from the conversation free and clear." She relaxed her hands, which had somehow formed fists. "I don't want to hurt him and I don't want to be cruel. I know he loves me as best he can, and I do still care about him."

"That's a good start. But let's work through the kinds of responses you might get, shall we? After all, he seems to have moments of great intelligence himself, so he might well suggest that the upsetting circumstances of the past few days are clouding your judgment."

Juliet frowned. "Are you saying they are?"

He smiled enigmatically. "Do you think they could be?"

"Do I think they _could_ be?" she echoed. "Or do I think they _are_?"

"Is it worth a reasoned discussion?"

"Everything is worth a reasoned discussion. At least that's what my psychologist would say," she retorted without heat, earning a smile. "But no. I don't think they are. I think if anything, the past few days have crystallized for me what I was already coming to understand. Carlton's imperfect in a lot of ways but he's… he's _mine_, Doctor. He's what I want." She almost sounded helpless, she thought. "I couldn't see anything, or think about anything, or focus on anything other than him while we were up there and right now I'm sitting here trying not to look at my watch because I want to go to him. He'll be cranky and de-caffeinated and he'll look like hell and he'll snap at me and reject any sympathy I offer and I'll want to bruise his other cheek with a hearty wallop but there's nothing he can say or do which will make me want to be anywhere else than at his side."

He considered her a moment. "And that's because it's what you want? Not what he wants?"

She rubbed her temples lightly. "Right now, honestly, it's almost immaterial that he has feelings for me. Right now, this is about _my_ feelings. Is that wrongheaded?"

"Not at all. It's honest, and shows your actions and feelings are motivated by something other than the guilt you've expressed in our other sessions, guilt about the changes in your partnership which you blamed yourself for. Moving on to feelings of pure connection, attraction and love is good."

_Love. Yes. _

She relaxed.

"But it is complicated," he added carefully. "The truth is you're still not sure exactly what the depth of Carlton's feelings are, or how he's going to be affected by the past few days—not to mention the upcoming months of therapy. And you haven't yet broken it off with Shawn, so you can't predict how that's going to go or how he'll handle it, both of which issues could affect you as you try to stand by Carlton as his friend and partner alone, not a potential lover."

_Potential lover. Yes._

She was less relaxed. But warm in rather inappropriate ways. _Focus, dear_.

"I have to go slow," she said quietly.

"Yes. So let's take a few minutes here and talk about how you're going to approach Shawn, because that has to come first, and it has to be done with maximum clarity of mind and spirit."

"Okay." She hesitated. "May I feed the fish?"

He laughed. "Yes. Just a little."

"Moderation in all things," she echoed, returning his smile.

"In all things," he agreed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton had been shot before—winged really, in comparison—but this was the worst so far.

Of course, he was also older now. But he was still in pretty damn good shape and possessed more than his share of cussedness (and nobody needed to _tell_ him so).

His leg was a simmering fire. The doctor said there was no infection: Big Ed Dixon had taken good care of him after Juliet's initial wrapping. But the flesh was deeply cut and he'd spent too much time on his feet in the cabin before the Serbs attacked.

His shoulder… yeah. Pain. He had been assured there was no bone or joint damage and that he was a lucky damn SOB for that, but the bullet left a swath of destruction through muscle he'd have to do some serious rehab work on over a long period of time.

Eastwood. Any one of Clint Eastwood's characters could have shrugged it off, applied a Band-Aid, and gone on.

But then again, they weren't real, and Carlton knew better.

Wednesday night and most of Thursday were a haze of meds and wooziness and pain. This morning, less woozy but plenty of pain.

Yet all he wanted, honestly, was to see Juliet.

She'd been at his side almost every time he came out of it enough to register where he was. Her smiling face, her lovely dark blue eyes, her hand clasping his: she was there, and showed no signs of being moved.

_You're a selfish bastard. Let her live her life. _

A different voice in his head said firmly: _No. You don't get many freebies, Lassiter. If she wants to be by your side right now, you let her. Take the friendship. Take the offered hand. Draw from her. She wants it and you _need_ it. _

_You get to do this now. It _is_ your turn_.

Several images and sounds from Wednesday at Big Ed's cabin continuously replayed in his head.

The look on Juliet's face when she found him there, when he woke to a loud noise and discovered himself surrounded by the Bigfoot hunters and debunkers. Her palpable relief and happiness—and even the way she handed him his shoe, like it was a treasure she was offering a king.

The sound of the panic and fear in her voice when she pulled him out of his post-gunshot haze. The way she gripped his arm as if he were holding _her_ together, rather than the other way around.

The way she strode to him across the clearing and took the hand he didn't even know he was holding out, and hung on as if he was the only person for miles around and she needed him as much as he needed her.

She didn't look at him as she walked beside the stretcher, but she didn't need to: there was so much contained merely in her grip on his hand.

Statler, that smug bastard, was right. He couldn't ever again let himself succumb to doubt that he mattered very much to Juliet. And he _wouldn't_ ever again let himself succumb to the expectation of Spencer coming between them in any permanent way. She might still move in with the idiot; she might even go on and marry him and pop out little Spencerspawn.

But Carlton knew now. He knew nothing would ever break the bond they shared.

Nothing.

So when she walked in mid-morning, an apology on her lips for being late, he waved it off and smiled at her.

The road ahead was going to be an ever-lovin' bitch, but he knew Juliet—even still belonging to Spencer—was going to see him down every yard of it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 9: Boyfriends, Relatives, Chaos

**CHAPTER NINE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was Sunday afternoon, and Carlton was losing his mind from inactivity and boredom. He wanted to get up and move around, but Juliet wanted him to stay put until after the nurse or an orderly had come in to help get him out of bed.

Carlton insisted he could do it on his own, that he _needed_ to do it on his own, because he wasn't going to be in the hospital forever with people around to attend to his every need.

_Not that I would mind you attending to my every need_, he thought, and she'd done a wonderful job so far. He was pretty sure she'd spent both Wednesday and Thursday night right there in his room.

He tried to rise up again—grimacing as his back and shoulder protested mightily—and Juliet put her hand hard against his chest to push him back.

Carlton froze, and so did she, and their gazes locked. He didn't know about her, but he wasn't… quite… breathing.

Her hand was flat against his bare skin. The v-neck of his hospital gown was spread wide, and the palm of her hand and every one of her fingers was in full contact with his bare chest, the sensation of this pressure against his chest hair providing a sensual layer to what was already—despite being so simple and so ordinary—an unexpectedly intimate experience.

She'd had her hands on his arms, on his good shoulder; she'd even touched his forehead a time or two in recent days. But this was something else again.

"Okay," he breathed. "Staying put."

"Good," she breathed back.

Her eyes—beautiful dark blue and wide now with something he hoped wasn't regret—were still fixed on his.

"Remember I can kick your ass." She withdrew, or at least withdrew her hand; she remained standing at the end of the bed.

"Only because I'm temporarily out of commission, O'Hara." He thought he _almost_ sounded normal.

"Oh, Lassiter, even at your _best_, I can kick your ass."

He grinned. "We'll see about that."

Juliet re-claimed her seat by the window. "I know you want to get moving again, and you will. Just be patient."

"Hello? Have you ever known me to be patient?"

"You're very good at being patient. You've spent a million hours in stakeouts. You told me you could stand still for up to eight hours."

"I _can_. But that's being patient for a reason. Toward a goal."

"So is this," she said reasonably. "The goal is to not screw up the stitches in your leg or your back so you can get well faster, start your rehab, and get back to work. I do not intend to break in a new partner, _partner_, so you have to behave while you're here."

Carlton let out an exasperated sigh and settled back against the pillows. "Everything itches."

"Well, if you get up too soon and fall on your butt, everything will hurt as well as itch."

"At least let me call the nurse."

"No." Before he could press the call button, she was at his side again, taking it from his hand. "She'll be in soon. Don't rush her or she'll poison your dinner."

Carlton frowned. "I don't think so."

She laughed. "But you wondered, didn't you. Settle down already."

_Yeah, right. I just felt your hand on my bare chest. Settling down ain't happening._

He was quiet for a while, changing channels on the TV as she cross-stitched (a police badge), and gradually he felt… nearly… comfortable again.

He'd actually felt pretty comfortable for days: everything hurt and his head ached most of the time and the pain meds made him feel weird and it was starting to sink in how freaking long this recovery was going to take (and it had only been a few days), but he was comfortable—content, even—having Juliet with him.

Spencer and Guster came to visit Friday afternoon, along with Chief Vick and others from the station. Carlton took it in stride, made gruff sounds of appreciation, and Spencer, surprisingly, didn't throw any veiled insults his way.

(Juliet suggested later that seeing Carlton shot and possibly dead had gotten to him, but Carlton doubted it could be that simple. Spencer didn't learn lessons.)

During a Saturday visit, while Buzz McNab was talking excitedly about an upcoming new paint job for the holding cells, Spencer drew Juliet aside to murmur about getting away from the hospital for awhile, maybe getting a bite to eat. "You can't spend every second with Lassie," he urged. "Come on."

Carlton heard it clearly, because Spencer was facing him, and because he'd long ago learned to tune out Buzz when he wasn't talking about actual crime.

"You spend every second with your best friend," Juliet countered calmly. "I imagine if _he_ were in the hospital recovering from life-threatening injuries, you'd be right by _his_ side."

"Jules," he said with a frown, "it's not the same thing. Gus and I have been friends since we were five. You and Lassie are only work partners and it's been, like, three years."

_Only work partners. Is that all…?_

"_Seven_ years, and last week in the woods, was I acting like he's only my work partner?"

He couldn't see her face, but her tone suggested she wanted to smack Spencer, which course of action he always encouraged.

"No, but it's different. You were freaked because you thought someone ate him. I was freaked too. Jules—" He stopped at her glower. "I miss you, okay? And look, he's doing fine. He's irritable and unshaven and he's fine. So let's go get some dinner and start looking at real estate ads again."

She told him no, not today. She told him Sunday, maybe.

Carlton was relieved… but also knew Spencer was right about her needing a break.

And now, twenty-four hours later, he knew he couldn't selfishly hold her here 24/7. Glancing at her, he began, "You know…"

"I know… what?"

"I… I heard what Spencer said yesterday. About you getting out of here."

Juliet looked up, expressionless. "Then you also heard me say I wanted to stay." She took a look down at her stitching and then back at him.

"Don't get me wrong," he said diffidently. "I'm glad you're here. But you have a life too and you need to get back to it."

"This _is_ my life."

He blinked, feeling his cheeks warm at her flat tone. "You know what I mean."

"Do you want me to leave?" It sounded like a challenge, not something she hoped he'd say yes to.

He gave her the truth, which he knew was her preference anyway. "No. You're really the only person I can even imagine being here. But you have things to do and boyfriends to appease and I'm _okay_."

Juliet gave a pointed look to his leg. "You can't be trusted to behave."

"I can be trusted for half a day," he insisted. "You've been here for a week."

"Four days, and so have you!"

"Juliet."

It felt so intimate to use her first name. And he liked the way it stilled her, if only for a second.

"Carlton?"

He had to be firm. "Go on awhile. You said I have to be patient to get to the goal. Well, part of being patient is letting you do the things you have to do." He tossed the TV remote aside, restless. "Go talk to Spencer."

"I don't want to," she admitted softly.

_Oh. _

But there was nothing he was allowed to say in response.

Still, he _was_ all right. He was in pain but he was stable and in no danger as long as he kept still and minded the nurses (not that he wanted to). He _didn't_ need her there every second—at least not to watch over him physically.

He just kept looking at her steadily until she had to look away: the stare game worked on suspects and now and then on Juliet.

This one was of those now-and-thens.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I'll let you alone for a few hours."

"Juliet. It's not that I _want_ to be alone."

There was a vulnerable quality to the way she immediately glanced at him, and he hoped she wouldn't cross to the bed to touch him because he probably wouldn't be able to let her go.

"I know."

"It's just… you need to visit your own life. I know you'll come back. I know you wouldn't be here at all if you didn't want to be here." He was speaking with more confidence now. "Check in with Spencer. Water your plants. Do some laundry."

She made a show of sniffing her shirt, and grinned. "Okay, okay. I'll go. Can I bring you anything from your condo?"

There was really only one thing—other than everything. "My laptop?" He glanced at her a bit uncertainly, and for one second—maybe only half of a second—he had the sensation she _had_ read the log file.

To dispel this uncomfortable sensation, he added, "If it's convenient to run by my place."

"Of course it is." She gave him a reassuring smile and gathered up her cross-stitch work, setting it on the windowsill.

"_After_ you've seen Spencer."

Juliet turned and met his gaze, and he knew instinctively that she got his meaning: no matter how much he might trust _her_, he still couldn't trust Spencer. The asshat would never be able to resist screwing with the laptop—again—if it was right in front of him, and God forbid and curse the orphans if _Spencer_ ever read that file.

"After." She went to him and patted his arm. "But I'd better not get back here tonight and find out you've torked off even one nurse."

Carlton smirked. "I'm an angel."

"Yeah you are… like I'm Gunga Din."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She called to ask Shawn if he wanted to have dinner.

He said with enthusiasm, "Sure! Gus and I were about to hook up at the Cheesy Chicken Café."

She said never mind, since he had plans.

He said, surprised, "No I don't."

She pointed out he'd just said he had plans with Gus.

He said, "It's Gus, not the Queen. Or Queen, which would be awesome even if Freddie Mercury was still dead."

She said Freddie Mercury _was_ still dead, and she'd catch up with Shawn another time.

He said, "Jules, seriously? I haven't seen you in a week, and I know you want their cheesy chicken puffs."

She said, "You saw me yesterday and the day before. And the day before that."

"But not alone. Come on, you love their chop salad."

"How is having dinner with you and Gus the same as us having dinner alone?"

Shawn was silent a moment. "It's Gus."

"So if you and Gus and Rachael went out, that would be Gus dining alone with Rachael?"

"No, that would be Rachael dining with me and Gus. Gus' girlfriend isn't the same as _my_ girlfriend."

Juliet's head began to ache.

He added, "Oh, and she and her son will be there too. We're meeting at five."

"Shawn, I don't think so. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll try it again."

"Wait, wait—tell me again what the problem is with tonight?"

She counted to three. "I'm not really up to company. I'm not even sure I'm up to you, but I'm definitely not up to you and three other people."

"I told you it was a bad idea to spend too much time with Lassie," he said disapprovingly.

"I'm not spending too much time with Carlton. _We_ get along just fine, Shawn, and we agree on a lot of stuff like, oh, I don't know, two's company; three's a crowd?"

"Uh, so? _Everyone_ agrees on that."

Honestly? Osmium and iridium had nothing on Shawn when it came to density. "I'm hanging up now."

"Jules, wait! I want to see you. Gus brought me a whole new stack of real estate guides this morning. He says he knows the manager at a couple of properties, and he can—"

Okay, now she was annoyed. "Gus is not house-hunting with us."

And now _he_ was annoyed. "What is the deal with you and Gus lately?"

"There is no deal with me and Gus. I like Gus. I consider him a good friend. But I've been dating _you_, Shawn. Not you and Gus. I was thinking about living with _you_, not you and Gus. When I say you and I should have dinner, I mean you and I. Not you and I _and Gus_."

"Where is this coming from? Has Lassie been talking to you? And what do you mean 'was thinking about'? Why is that in past tense?"

Juliet was sitting on a bench outside the hospital, in the afternoon shade of a tall green tree, and for a few moments she could hear nothing but a whooshing in her ears.

"I am so tired," she finally said. "I'm just so tired. But don't you even say one word about Carlton. He is not _making_ me be with him. I'm with him by choice, as his friend and partner and someone who cares about him enormously. But he's got a long way to go before he's really recovered and I _will_ be at his side, so I'm not going to have time for you. Not meaningful time, and not for a long while. So yeah… it is past tense. We can't move in together. Not now. I just can't do it. It's not fair to you and it wouldn't be fair to him."

Shawn was silent but it was a loud silence. "Fair to him? How would it be unfair to him for you to have a life? You didn't shoot him, Jules. You didn't hurt his leg or push him down the hill. None of that was your fault. Or mine. He stepped in that trap all by himself, he jumped around like Tigger and fell, and—"

Juliet punched the 'end call' button. Not one more word of insulting and self-serving claptrap would she hear from him today.

She was a coward for not breaking it off completely already, but damn, did _everything_ have to be so freaking hard with him?

And through all of the last hour, including this conversation with Shawn, why could she not stop thinking about having her hand on Carlton's warm bare chest?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

On Monday morning, Carlton grudgingly allowed the orderly to help him out of bed so he could get to the bathroom, but then he refused to get back in.

"I'm sitting in the chair," he said flatly, and limped in that direction.

The orderly—twice his size but not nearly as cranky—tried futilely to steer him back to the bed, and when he got nowhere, unwilling to engage in a struggle with a "one-shouldered" man, he left him to find a nurse for backup.

Carlton planted himself in the chair, with the laptop in easy reach. Juliet had brought it to him along with a couple of contraband doughnuts after her 'away time.' He thanked her, thought she looked weary, still felt guilty for letting her spend so much time with him, and told her to go home.

Juliet had looked him in the eye while licking powdered sugar off her fingertips—not a good way to get him to concentrate on a serious conversation—and asked, "Do you _want_ me to leave?"

"You asked me that before, and the answer's still no."

"So my answer's still no, too. Napkin?"

It was just that easy with her.

She stayed, and they played cards (slowly, because his left arm was out of commission), and they watched episodes of _Duck Dynasty_ at her insistence and which he enjoyed way more than he thought he would because those overly-bearded backwoods folks were pretty damned smart and pretty damned funny, and she left about ten, and just before she did, she came to his bed and touched his arm and leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He swallowed his tongue and asphyxiated… no; he made a strangled noise which was supposed to be "good night" and which she accepted as such, and she left him alone to dream dizzy dreams about… yeah. Stuff.

Lotsa… stuff.

Good thing he wasn't hooked up to a heart or pulse monitor anymore.

This pale-yellow Monday morning he hoped to have a chat with Dr. Statler before Juliet came in.

First, however, he had to deal with the stern nurse.

Who had never met the implacable Carlton Lassiter.

Who had never met Nurse Wendy Westlake.

They were glaring at each other when Juliet came in. "Um, what's going on?"

"Miss O'Hara," Nurse Wendy said with artificial warmth. "Could I get you to help me return Mr. Lassiter to his bed?"

"I'm _fine_," he insisted. "I just want to sit up in a chair for a little while."

"The doctor said off your feet until he makes his rounds this afternoon."

"I _am_ off my feet." He pointed to his leg, which was propped up on the ottoman.

Juliet touched the nurse's arm. "Fifteen minutes? He might stroke out if he doesn't get his way."

"Good thing he's in a hospital, then," was the tart reply.

"Ten minutes. Please. I'll twist his good arm to get him to cooperate after that." She gave Carlton a glare with slightly less heat than the one from the nurse. "I'll twist his _bad_ arm if that doesn't work."

"Fine, ten minutes. But only because I have a few other fires to put out." She shot Carlton one last glare and stalked off.

Juliet perched on the other side of the ottoman, careful not to nudge his leg. "Is this your big rebellion of the day, or are you barely getting started?"

"I just want to sit in a chair," he repeated. "You look rested." _And pretty_. "And alert." _And gorgeous, really; not merely pretty_. _And you kissed my cheek last night_.

"You look like crap." Her smile softened the bluntness of her words.

"Yeah, some stuff happened last week. Can't remember whether I mentioned it."

"Not a word." She reached down into the large bag she'd carried in. "I have a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit for you."

"You're the best woman I know, O'Hara." True for so many reasons.

"I know." Handing it over, she also produced hash browns and a sweet roll, and then unwrapped similar treats for herself, and they dined in casual non-splendor until Nurse Wendy came back in and demanded to have her way.

Juliet gave Carlton the look which only worked on him when it came from her. It was partly "I'll beat you to a pulp" and partly "I'll enjoy it, too" and partly "Please… because _I'm_ the one asking," and it was the last part which did the trick and had done so for years.

Didn't make him any less crabby about it, however. Muttering under his breath (he had a feeling Wendy heard him clearly), he allowed them to get him into the bed with a minimum of leg and shoulder-twisting.

"I don't see why the hell I can't sit in the chair."

"The doctor wants your leg the hell elevated," Wendy shot back, "and moving around too much isn't good for the stitches—"

"Sitting still isn't moving around," he said with a glare hotter than hers.

"Neither is staying in bed like he told you to," Juliet interrupted, her hand on his forearm. "Settle down."

Carlton subsided, because while he was loath to say it out loud, she was nearly always right. After Wendy huffed off, Juliet eyed the laptop over by the chair.

"Did you want to use that this morning?"

"Yeah. Thought I'd check email and crap."

"And crap," she echoed, and brought it to him.

It was on the tip of his tongue to add _and check in with my therapist_, in the kind of truth-as-misdirection move Spencer was fond of, but in the end his natural predisposition to _keep his mouth_ _the hell shut_ about private matters kicked in.

Unfortunately, it proved too tricky to balance the laptop as he lay in bed and also use it with only the one unrestricted hand. He needed a table.

"When the doctor comes in, we'll ask about wheeling you down to the sunroom at the end of the hall," Juliet suggested. "As long as your leg's propped up, he should allow it, don't you think?"

"Will you brandish your service weapon as an incentive?"

"I will not."

"O'Hara, why do you always say no when I ask you to invoke your authority?"

"Because you always ask me to invoke my authority over dumb-ass stuff," she said cheerfully.

Carlton thought about it. "That's fair."

She handed him his orange juice with a smile. "Remember what you said before: I'm the finest woman you know."

Of this, he needed no reminder whatsoever.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

On Monday afternoon, Juliet met a lovely, sweet lady.

To offset this unexpected delight, she also met Carlton's mother.

The first lady, Althea, was the gentle soul who somehow tolerated the abrasive nature of the second lady, who had brought Carlton into the world.

Well, that was _one_ point in her favor, since Juliet was more than passing fond of the tall, lean and beautifully-blue-eyed hardass.

Althea fussed over Carlton, whose smile for her was natural, as Mrs. Lassiter turned to Juliet and demanded, "Who are you?"

Juliet had gone to the gift shop to find Carlton some non-mint toothpaste and a fresh razor, and when she returned, the two women were hovering over Carlton in his bed. He looked both irate and uneasy, because his mother was carrying on about why she had to hear about his injury through the grapevine instead of from him, and Althea was pointing out gently that he'd been incapacitated, and Mrs. Lassiter (she had no first name, Juliet decided; not even at birth) arguing that he looked okay to her and Althea saying but look, one arm's in a sling and Mrs. Lassiter declaring he could have had someone make the call for him, and so on.

"Juliet O'Hara, Carlton's partner." She held out her hand.

Mrs. Lassiter stared at it, and then back at her. "What kind of partner?"

She had bright blue eyes like her son, only with no discernible trace of vulnerability.

"His partner at the police station," Juliet said patiently.

"No you're not. I met her. She's at least a foot taller than you."

It took her a second to figure that out. "You're thinking of his previous partner, Lucinda Barry." But she doubted Lucinda had been taller than Buzz McNab.

Mrs. Lassiter huffed. "Well, when did you get here?"

"It's been over seven years. We spoke on the phone once," she started, then asked herself if she really wanted to resurrect _that_ memory.

It didn't matter, because Mrs. Lassiter was barreling on: "I don't approve of Booker having female partners. There's just too much temptation and he's got a wife to think of."

"Uh, he's divorced."

This was dismissed with a wave of the hand. "It's only temporary."

She was about to make a cutting remark built around a "_oh, I don't think so_" kernel when Althea intervened.

"Now, sweetheart, leave this nice young lady alone. Can't you see she's Carlton's special lady friend?"

From the bed, Carlton muttered, "Oh, my _God_."

From where she stood, Juliet felt her cheeks burning, but she wasn't about to argue the point: she was perfectly happy to be his 'special lady friend.'

Mrs. Lassiter gave her another once-over. "Hrmph."

Althea steered them both out into the hallway with a firm hand, saying Carlton needed to rest, so they should talk quietly out here. As they came to a stop some distance from the door—Juliet completely unsure how she'd been herded so efficiently—Kate Favor approached from the other end of the hall.

"Can I just pop in and say hello?" She looked pretty good; Juliet had heard she and Chavo were going to be released soon. Her thin hospital gown was tucked into jeans, the corner of a bandage visible on her chest.

"Um, sure," Juliet managed, trying to get through Althea's cooing over her blouse and Mrs. Lassiter haranguing her about… frankly, God only knew what; haranguing covered the bases well enough.

She lasted another couple of minutes before her expression must have become dazed enough to get through to Althea, if not Mrs. Lassiter. Thus, just as efficiently as she'd guided them from the room, Althea guided her still-grumbling ladylove away again, asking Juliet to remind Carlton to call them more often, _and by the way, your hair is so pretty_…

Juliet watched them go, bemused, and made a note to tell Carlton—poor damaged, distrustful, paranoid Carlton—that he'd turned out exceptionally well considering how the deck had been so thoroughly stacked against him.

And "how the hell does Althea put up with _that_?" was a question she'd like to ask him at the same time.

Shaking off the weirdness, she went back into Carlton's room… where Kate was straddling him on his hospital bed, her hands working to open his shirt, clear lust written all over her face—and a mix of terror and outrage in his wide blue eyes.

"What the hell are you _doing_?" Juliet screeched.

"Mind giving us the room for a minute, hon?" Kate purred. "I'm doing him a Favor. You know, by doing him."

"Dear God, O'Hara, get this woman off of me!"

"Oh, baby, I'm trying to get off _on_ you," Kate said with a low laugh, undulating against him.

Juliet had no choice: she slugged her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	10. Chapter 10: What Happened In The Room

**CHAPTER TEN**

**. . . . **

**. . .**

"You _hit_ her?"

"Well, not as hard as I wanted." At his perturbed expression, Juliet explained, "She was on top of Carlton on the raised bed so the angle was all wrong. Best I could do was clip her under the chin and knock her loose."

Dr. Gentry did not seem comforted.

"And I was… kind of yelling some things at her too, which caught the attention of a passing nurse, and a few minutes later, I was ejected from the hospital for the day."

He did not miss the opportunity. "What were you yelling?"

She shifted in the chair. "I'm not… entirely sure I… quite remember what I… might have said."

His smile was faint. "We'll come back to that. How's Kate?"

"Fine. She was ejected too." She hoped her smug satisfaction at having bruised the little orgasmo-queen wasn't _too_ obvious.

"Wait—wasn't she a patient?"

"She was about to be discharged, and technically she assaulted a police officer."

"But you punched _her_."

"Because she was attacking another patient in his bed," Juliet retorted.

Dr. Gentry laughed. "Of course; I'm sorry. How's Carlton doing?"

She felt uneasy again. "I think he's okay. He was trying to push her off of him and if he used both arms for that out of instinct, he might be feeling pretty crappy. Plus, who knows whether she hurt his leg when she hauled her skanky ass up there."

"True." So mild, his tone. "Now, you're _sure_ you were only looking out for the interests of a fellow officer?"

"Yeah right," she muttered. "Chick was mauling my man."

Again, his laughter was warm, as if he honestly and inexplicably thought she were perfectly rational. "Should we revisit what you _might_ have been saying to her during all this?"

Juliet sighed. "I might have said 'he's mine, you oversexed bitch.'"

"Might have," he repeated with a grin.

"Might have. But then again, _maybe_ what I said was, 'move away from the injured man in a calm and orderly fashion.'"

"Hmmm."

"'… you oversexed bitch.'"

"I really should not laugh at that," he said—while laughing. "Yes, I believe we can safely assume your feelings of possessiveness toward Carlton go beyond mere partnership."

"Damn straight."

"All right," he went on after composing himself. "So you and Carlton have re-established the closeness which was lacking in the past year, if not increased it. What about your relationship with Shawn?"

Juliet had been ignoring Shawn's calls since Sunday afternoon. His texts and messages were testy rather than conciliatory or even befuddled, and he didn't come by the hospital.

For the doctor, she laid out their last conversation, relieved to be able to say she'd put the kibosh on living together even though she hadn't found the courage or energy to do more than that.

"I can't remember if I told you this, but we worked a case over a year ago involving a mental hospital. Shawn went undercover as a patient and the psychiatrist who was assisting us gave him a diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder."

Dr. Gentry nodded. "It's risky for me to say so without ever having met him, but from what you've told me, I suspect that doctor was correct. However, we're here to talk about _you_ and _your_ course of action, and I must remind you about the importance of ending your current relationship and having some breathing room before you initiate something new, regardless of your certainty of your feelings for Carlton. The breathing room is for him as well."

"Um. Yes. About that."

"Yes?"

"Um. Well. Before I left, he, uh, gave me a pretty clear sign he might not need so much breathing room as you think."

Dr. Gentry regarded her curiously. "And what was this sign?"

Juliet felt flushed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

After Juliet was forcibly removed from the room on Monday—right behind the frighteningly randy Kate Favor—Carlton's doctor came in to check him out post-scuffle.

While Nurse Wendy looked on in clear disbelief that two women appeared—at least circumstantially—to be fighting over this _particular_ patient, the doctor judged that none of his stitches had been pulled, and despite understandably elevated blood pressure and pulse, Carlton was allowed to get out of bed—with assistance—as desired.

He might even be released by the end of the week; no promises.

Carlton could barely concentrate on anything he said. He heard only "out of bed" and "released soon" with his ears, and "holy crap, what the _hell_ just happened with Juliet" in his head.

The doctor made a few chart notations and left the room; the nurse eyed Carlton warily.

"I'm fine," he said testily. "I want to get out of bed now. I want to sit in that damned chair by that damned window. Okay? _Now_. And you didn't have to kick Detective O'Hara out. She was _defending_ me."

Nurse Wendy was unimpressed. "Too bad. She assaulted a patient, just like Ms. Favor did. You're lucky we didn't ban her or call the cops."

"Lady, we _are_ the cops."

"Not in here, you're not. In here, you're just another patient, and she's just another visitor."

He kept his grumblings silent for a change.

She summoned the orderly, and with minimal fuss or pain, Carlton was soon out of bed and seated in the padded chair with his leg up. The orderly brought him his laptop, Wendy said they'd be back in an hour, and for a few moments he just sat, eyes closed, reliving the last thirty minutes.

His mother sailing in. _Dear God_. Being trapped in the bed, no way to escape… he shuddered. Thank God for Althea's innate goodness and ability to know when he needed protection, not that he would ever admit such a thing to any living soul (except possibly Juliet) (and Althea) (probably just Juliet).

Then seeing his mother turn her Spotlight of Doom upon Juliet—and how Juliet rallied.

"_Carlton's special lady friend…"_

He felt mortified anew. Although Juliet hadn't done more than turn pink, at least in his presence. She might have extricated herself from the assumption as soon as she was safely out in the hall with them.

Then Kate Favor.

For one second he allowed himself to feel purely male pride about having been desired by an attractive woman.

For every second after that, he was unable to forget exactly how many men Kate Favor had in all likelihood desired—and acquired—in her adult life.

_Yeah, I don't think so._

And Juliet returning to the room.

_Yeah… wow._

Carlton took a deep breath, and then another. And another.

_Because wow._

He reached over for the laptop and managed to turn it on. He'd do better at a table and it was unlikely Statler was available on an emergency basis, but at the least he could set up a time to 'chat' with him later.

_And when exactly did you become someone who would actively seek out this kind of assistance? You of all people, Carlton 'I Can Damn Well Take Care Of It Myself' Lassiter?_

_Shut it. This is a _woman_ we're talking about._

_Oh yeah. Good point._

_Besides, buddy… in case you forgot, someone else's opinion might come in handy to explain why the hell you kissed her before they threw her out. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying again to absorb the enormity of it.

"You'll have to do a bit more than look euphoric if you want me to understand," Dr. Gentry remarked.

How did he always seem so calm?

"The nurse was snapping and Kate was being hustled out and Carlton was very agitated. They wanted to throw me out but I went to his bed to get him to settle down. He was trying to get up, and he was arguing with the nurse and the orderly and someone said something about calling security. I just wanted him to calm down, and I wanted to apologize for causing such a disruption even though I kind of also wanted to chase after Kate and give her a proper punch."

Dr. Gentry cleared his throat. "One day, Juliet, we should probably discuss your anger issues."

"Yeah, who knew, right?" She grinned. "It's handy on the job sometimes. You have no idea. Anyway, I went to his bed and tried to push him back onto his pillows but he fought me. Carlton," she added flatly, "is the definition of stubborn."

"_Juliet, are you okay?" The blue of his eyes was turbulent, shocked, angry, worried._

"_Yes," she promised, and held out her 'punching' hand to show him."Please lie back down."_

_Carlton was still trying to get into a sitting position, if not get out of the bed entirely._

_Behind them, Nurse Wendy stood in the doorway telling an anxious Kate Favor she really could not come back in. The orderly was looking between that action and theirs, unsure where to stand to jump in if called upon._

"_They can't kick you out," Carlton said hotly._

"_They can, and it's okay. I'll call you later and see how you are." She patted his chest—touching bare skin again thanks to the v-neck gown which had been torturing her the last few days—but Carlton grasped her hand before she could withdraw._

"_Thank you." _

_Juliet smiled—suddenly feeling sort of tremulous—and didn't want to leave him at all._

_His eyes were stormy-ocean blue now, and his grip on her hand tightened. "I mean it." _

"_Oh, Carlton, I'd do it again in a—"_

_In a what? She couldn't remember, because suddenly his warm mouth was on hers, and he let go of her hand to cup her cheek, slipping his long fingers into her hair and drawing her close, seeking and giving._

_He's kissing me, she thought. My God, Carlton is _kissing_ me. _

_And Carlton is kissing me very, very well._

_Nurse Wendy said sharply, "That's all very nice, but it's time for Miss O'Hara to leave and for Mr. Lassiter to get back to his recovery."_

_Juliet—who hadn't realized she was standing on tiptoes in order to deepen the kiss—abruptly hit the floor again, along with reality._

_The nurse grasped her arm firmly and pulled her slightly away from the bed. "Do not return before I start my shift tomorrow morning at eleven. I will make sure the security officers and orderlies have their phasers set on stun. Do not call Mr. Lassiter this evening either; I will not have any more agitation heaped upon him today. Is that understood?"_

_Juliet was lost in Carlton's damn-near-hypnotic blue gaze. _

"_Miss O'Hara!"_

"_Understood," she managed, and was hustled out of the room before Carlton could so much as protest._

She looked now at Dr. Gentry, who gazed back at her most interestedly.

"So."

"Yes," he agreed. "So. Can you elaborate upon what your feelings are about this incident? I mean, in a non-giddy person's terms?"

Juliet had to laugh at the gentle poke. "Well… I'm pleased, and I'd like to do it again without an audience, but I'm also a little worried, because I know Carlton. He's probably completely twisted up about this right now."

"Because…?"

"Oh, Dr. Gentry. Carlton feels so… _responsible_ for everything. He'll be asking himself if he took advantage of me. Or if I kissed him back so his feelings wouldn't be hurt. Or if I'm going to call the chief and demand a new partner. Or if word's gotten back to the station about it and we're both in trouble. I _know_ him. I mean…" She sighed. "I know him better than anyone else does, I'd bank on that. But I guess I only know him as well as he lets himself be known. Maybe I don't know anything."

"Now, Juliet—"

"Getting involved with Shawn being an excellent example of that."

"Stop right there," he cautioned her. "We're working on unraveling the mysteries of two _very_ complicated relationships. You must _not_ hold yourself up to an unrealistic standard."

Juliet knew he was right. She also knew there were so many things for her girl-brain to process: the kiss, Shawn, the feel of Carlton's bare skin under her hand, the kiss, Carlton's lit-from-within blue, blue eyes, the jealous rage she'd felt over Kate manhandling him, the kiss, getting out of her relationship with Shawn, and the kiss.

Not to mention the kiss.

"It was a very good kiss," she said softly.

Dr. Gentry smiled. "I'm sure it was. Let's talk about how to keep things under control for awhile, okay? For _both_ of your relationships in their transitional stages."

_Control. Huh. That'd be nice._

"So you're advising me not to pull a Kate on him next time I go to the hospital?"

Because the idea of straddling her lean blue-eyed Irishman, with only the thin cotton of his hospital gown between them… _mmmmmm._

"Yes, Juliet. I am advising you not to 'pull a Kate' on Carlton."

"Do you always have to be right?" She sounded plaintive.

He laughed. "In this office? Yeah, I kinda do."

Well, _that_ sucked.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Four a.m. Tuesday morning.

Carlton had scored a five a.m. time slot with Statler (eight a.m. for the doctor), but judging by how long it took to get the request through, he knew he absolutely had to be able to sit at a table with the laptop in front of him, and even then it was going to be slow, typing with one hand.

Juliet couldn't come back until eleven, so he wasn't worried about her (or the fierce Nurse Wendy Westlake) walking in on him, but he had a bigger issue right now: getting out of bed without undue shoulder pain, making it to the chair, figuring out how to lower the bedside rolling table to serve as a desk, and—who was he kidding? He couldn't do all that on his own with one arm out of commission.

Lying back, willing the frustration to abate, he remembered something Juliet had cautiously told him some years ago.

They were at a coffee shop where the on-duty barista did not like him one bit. Juliet made the calm observation that he'd been rude to her. Carlton had first protested the accusation, then said it hardly mattered whether he was rude to a barista; it would only lead to having to be polite to other people as well when they were too slow to give him life-saving caffeine, and all that time spent being polite would delay the solving of crime, which she might do well to remember was their job. Juliet made the further calm observation that taking an extra five seconds to be less abrasive would make law-abiding citizens more inclined to do what he said when it was really important (like "_Everybody down! Now!_").

_Smile_, she'd told him, and this is where she got cautious. _You have those really nice big blue eyes and women respond to big blue eyes, so smile. Just a little. And see what happens_.

Grudgingly, since otherwise the barista would continue to figure out ways to serve him less and less or worse and worse coffee, he gave it a shot.

The first day, the barista merely frowned at him. The second day, she seemed puzzled. The third day, she acted as if he were an ordinary first-time customer. The fourth day, she smiled back.

He'd never have believed it possible and he refused to return to the coffee shop after that, in case it was a terrible fluke and the woman intended to run him through the espresso machine, but he didn't forget how… remarkable it was to smile at a woman who smiled back, simply because she liked his eyes, and no matter what kind of an ass she'd previously thought him to be.

These reminiscences led to one conclusion: he was going to have to _ask_ for help, and he was going to have to be _nice_ about it.

Dammit.

The night nurse was new to him, and obviously tired. She responded to his call perfunctorily, but when she entered the room he mustered up every positive vibe possible and tried out the smile as he asked her to help him to the chair and see about lowering the rolling table to serve as his desk.

She frowned. "It's not even 4:30 in the morning. You should be sleeping. How's your pain?"

"Under control. I feel okay but I can't sleep. I'm…" He paused. _Don't lay it on too thick_. "I've got some people who want to hear from me and I figure this is as good a time as any to get in touch."

Still she frowned… but not as much.

He smiled again. He hoped he didn't come across like the damned cat in _Shrek 2_.

(Though if that would work…)

Shortly before five, he was situated even more comfortably than he'd dreamed of: the nurse had stuffed pillows behind his lower back so he could properly sit up in the chair, and the table was lowered to the perfect height, positioned so he could use the laptop one-handed.

It would still be slow, but he could do it.

_StatlerPsyD: Good morning, CL. I wondered if you'd given up on these sessions.  
CL: Hang on. Gotta type one-handed. Highlights ahead.  
StatlerPsyD: This should be interesting. Take your time.  
CL: Stepped in a bear trap last week, messed up leg. Next day, shot in the back by Serbian. In hospital. Juliet with me the whole time. Yesterday she popped a woman trying to maul me & got kicked out. Kissed her. She kissed me back._

_CL: You there?  
StatlerPsyD: Yes. When you sum up, CL, you cover an impressive amount of ground. May I make a suggestion?  
CL: Yeah._

The next thing to appear on his screen was a long-distance phone number.

_CL: What's that?  
__StatlerPsyD: My cell.  
__CL: Why?  
__StatlerPsyD: I think given your medical situation—you only have the use of one arm?—and the fact you've just dropped about seventeen bombshells in one relatively short paragraph, an actual conversation might be more productive.__  
_

Carlton's thoughts were a mix of _hell no_ and _dammit he's right_, with a side of _all that trouble to use the damn laptop and I end up on the phone_, and a chaser of _but then he'll be real. This will be real. You asking for help will be _real.

And obviously habitual, damn it all.

_StatlerPsyD: You can say no; I don't mean to add to your stress. I'm just offering it as a suggestion.  
CL: Thinking.  
StatlerPsyD: Understood. If it'll help sway you, this one time will be free.  
CL: Well that's just weird.  
__StatlerPsyD: :-) I do actually enjoy my work, you know. What do you say?__  
_

His phone was on the table next to the laptop and he looked at it suspiciously.

_Are you seriously afraid to talk to this guy after everything you've put on screen in the past few months? You? Carlton 'Fear No Man' Lassiter?_

"The hell I am," he muttered, and moved the phone closer so he could punch in the number.

And then…

"Hello, CL."

He went mute.

"This _is_ CL, right?"

"Carlton," he said, sucking up the initial hesitation. "You can call me Carlton."

"Hmm. It suits you."

"I'm not going to ask what that means."

The voice was amused. "It doesn't mean anything except it suits you. A strong name for a strong and reserved person."

Carlton had occasionally wondered what Statler sounded like. He'd found a few photos when he ran the background check—dark hair, dark eyes, mustache—but photos didn't tell the whole story.

Based on the words which filled his screen, he'd imagined the man to be a cross between John Cleese and Frasier Crane: a bit plummy; urbane and dry.

But this man sounded more like Dr. Sydney Freedman from _MASH_. Very relaxed. Hard to faze.

"So you had a busy week?" Statler prompted.

"You could say that."

"You want to try those highlights again, with a little more detail?"

_Jump in. _

By the time he got to the Serb shooting him, he knew this would never have worked as an online chat: there was too much.

Statler asked for a few clarifications, and eventually Carlton got to the part where he had to admit the damned doctor was right about Juliet's trust and dedication.

"Try not to hold it against me," Statler said dryly. "Sometimes I do know what I'm doing."

"Don't get cocky," Carlton shot back.

"I'll make an effort. Go on."

He picked up the torch with overhearing the conversation between Spencer and Juliet, and Juliet's kiss to his cheek that evening.

"What do you think that meant?"

"Crap. Is _this_ where it starts? You asking me what I think everything means?"

"I have to know what you think about these events, Carlton. What you feel."

"Uh-huh. Make up your mind: are you asking me what I felt or what it meant?"

The doctor made a sound of amusement. "I'm asking whether you think she kissed you out of affection, or reassurance, or to stake a claim, and how you would feel about any of those scenarios."

Carlton glowered at the empty room. "Yesterday afternoon," he went on grimly, "is what I want to talk about."

"So we shall, then."

The man was still amused, but Carlton decided not to shoot him yet.

"My mother."

"What about her?"

"Juliet stepped out for a minute and my mother came in. It was horrifying."

"You know, I don't believe we've ever discussed your mother."

"We never will," Carlton assured him, still grim. "She came in with Althea. I was a sitting duck. It felt like the bear trap times ten."

"You know, I do believe we will _have_ to discuss your mother. Who's Althea?"

_Not today, doc. Not damn well today_. "Juliet came back. My mother went for her. Althea kept me from leaping out of my bed."

"Your mother… _went_ for her? Is she some sort of hyena?"

The question was so cool and relaxed that Carlton paused and actually grinned.

But he had to focus. "It was a verbal sortie. Juliet held her own. Althea called her…" Here he paused, feeling his face flaming. "My special lady friend."

"Ah, so the mysterious Althea is an observant creature. Did you tell me who Althea is?"

Carlton ignored that. "They went out in the hall, leaving me to stew in my own helpless miasma of … whatever you want to call it. Then Kate Favor waltzed in."

"The Bigfoot documentarian from last week?"

"The delusional and sex-crazed film student, yes. She said she wanted to thank me for taking down the Serb who was about to kill her, and the next thing I knew, she was on the bed and trying to ride me like it was last call at Gilley's."

He paused mainly for breath.

Very slowly, Dr. Statler said, "Giddy-up?"

"Have I ever told you I don't like you?"

"Not that I recall. May I ask you how you felt about this invasion of your personal space?"

"Appalled. The woman's seen more traffic than the I-405."

"And?"

"Like I was trapped in a nightmare and the next person in the room would be Spencer in a clown suit with trained squirrels and a tray of snow globes filled with yowling vegans."

Long pause from the other side. "Oh, my. I think I should have suggested phone calls a long time ago."

"That's not exactly encouraging, Dr. Feelgood."

"Oh, no, I'm quite encouraged to hear you be so very interestingly specific. Who's Spencer?"

_Crap. _

"I'd rather discuss Althea, and I'm not discussing Althea."

Statler laughed. "Yet. We'll move on, then."

"Juliet came in, saw what was happening, and popped Kate in the jaw to get her off of me. She… shouted at her."

"Your decision to stop there intrigues me. Something about what she shouted?"

He could still hear her voice: the anger and possessiveness.

"_He's mine, you over-sexed bitch."_

_He's mine._

Carlton swallowed. "She shouted that I was hers."

"Did she now? How interesting."

"I really hate that, you know."

"But it _is_ interesting. Interesting is a useful word, don't you agree? Never mind, I'm sure you don't. What happened then?"

"People came in to break it up. Nurse Nattering Nabob of Negativity tried to kick them both out but Juliet came to me. I was trying to get out of bed but Juliet kept me down and I…"

"It's the pauses which reveal so much," Statler commented, "and before you say it, yes, I'm aware you don't like me."

"Good." He cleared his throat. "I thanked her. I was holding her hand, and I… kissed her."

"Hmmm. Why?"

"_Why_?"

"Yes. Why did you kiss her?"

He was at a loss, as well as annoyed. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

"It's a very _simple_ question. Five words, five syllables. Why did you kiss her?"

"Because I—"

Statler waited a moment. "Because you…?"

"Because I wanted to, dammit."

That really was the heart of it. She was so close, her face flushed with the heat of battle, her eyes bright and beautiful, and so much had happened in the past two weeks even if most of it was in his head—and in that moment, all he wanted was to close the distance between them and kiss her.

"You'd just been nearly assaulted after the horrors of a visit from your mother—whom we _will_ discuss one day—you'd just seen the woman you love stand up for you, and you wanted to kiss her."

"Yeah," he said helplessly, sixteen-year-old boy all over again.

Dr. Statler was gentler now. "And what did she do?"

"She kissed me back."

She'd leaned in closer, even. If Nurse Moodkill hadn't interrupted…

"And?"

Carlton sighed heavily. "The nurse yanked her out of the room and she can't come back until eleven this morning."

"What do you think will happen then?"

Now… now the fear resurfaced. "I don't know."

"Is she still with her boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Then you _do_ know what will happen when she comes in."

"_If_ she comes in. She might already have moved to Fresno."

"Surely not; I've been to Fresno. Let's assume she does come in at eleven."

"Yeah, I know what will happen."

"Say it," Statler said patiently.

_Suck it_, he wanted to retort, but that was the asshat's phrase, not his.

"She's already in a relationship. I can look but not touch. Or influence. Or hope."

"Strike that last part, Carlton. Hope is always allowed."

"Swell."

"But you don't have to martyr yourself either. There are healthy ways to find out the lay of the land without applying unfair pressure."

"Like _what_?"

"Well, you could talk to her about all this."

"Bite me."

"Use your grown-up words, Carlton."

"I can't talk to her about this yet. I don't know what _this_ is."

"Then let's discuss it now. We still have some time. But before we go on—I really would like to know who Althea is."

"You can dream," he muttered.

"And also Spencer."

_Pfffft._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	11. Chapter 11: The Dense & The Other Doc

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**. . . . **

**. . .**

When she neared the open door to Carlton's room, Juliet heard sounds from inside which immediately removed the general sense of well-being Dr. Gentry had instilled in her.

Shawn and Gus were there, talking at Carlton.

_At_ was the right word, she reflected.

Carlton was standing, his right hand clenched around a cane handle. He was near the window, half-lit by the morning sun, scowling.

But more than that, he looked exhausted, with shadows under his crystal blue eyes, and she couldn't be sure he wouldn't use that cane to take a swing at Shawn.

Hurrying in, she caught snippets of a bizarre yet typical conversation about breakfast foods; she brushed past Shawn just as he began to speculate as to whether Count Chocula and Frankenberry might be metrosexuals, to which Gus responded he was pretty sure General Mills was unlikely to be sending social signals of that sort to children, and then Shawn questioned whether General Mills had military credentials at all, let alone whether they were relevant to the manufacture of cereal in the first place.

Carlton's gaze was already fixed on Juliet, his posture relaxing, his expression softening, and it warmed her heart that he trusted her to get him out of this.

"Hi, guys." She went to stand beside Carlton. "How are you, partner? You look wiped out."

He didn't answer.

"Hey, Jules," Gus said with a smile. "Long time no see."

Shawn remarked somewhat sarcastically, "Hmmm, you seem familiar—aren't we dating?"

"Funny, Shawn," she answered, although it wasn't. "You know where I've been."

"Sorry about your phone." His smile was insincere. "When did it die?"

Next to her, Carlton sighed.

Internally, Juliet sighed too. "I'm sorry. We'll catch up soon."

"How about now?" He reached over and grasped her arm, trying to draw her away from the others.

She resisted the tugging. "Because I can see Carlton's worn out and probably needs to get back into bed."

"I'm fine," muttered Carlton.

"I know better." She peered up at him. "Has the doctor been in?"

Shawn spoke first. "Jules, this is a hospital. If the doctor hasn't been in yet, he will be. They live here. That's how hospitals work."

Gus _tsk_ed. "Shawn, doctors don't live in hospitals."

"Then how do you explain them always being here?"

"How do you explain yourself always being at a smoothie shop?"

"Good taste, that's how." They fist-bumped each other, grinning like loons.

"Please take this conversation elsewhere." Carlton's tone was tight, and Juliet noticed his grip on the cane tightening even more. He was either extremely annoyed or extremely tired, or both, and that was enough for her.

"Guys," she said briskly, taking hold of their arms, "let's go."

She steered them out into the hall, over Shawn's protests, glancing back once to see Carlton making a slow path to the large chair.

"It's nearly lunch time, Jules. Pineapple pizza at Hawaii Mario's. You in?"

"I can't. I have to—"

"No, you _don't_ have to," he interrupted. "Lassie's fine. You don't need to be here every second."

"Well, it's after eleven and I just arrived, so you _know_ I'm not here every second. But I can't have lunch today. I'm supposed to go in for my department psych eval and then check in with Chief Vick." It wasn't until early afternoon, but he didn't have to know that.

Shawn was getting huffy. "When do I get to see my girlfriend? We have to find a place to live before my lease runs out, remember? I can't go back to my dad's."

Juliet stared at him in disbelief. "We talked about this."

"Yeah, on Sunday." At her continued stare, he added, "But this is Tuesday. Come on. We have stacks of ads to go through, and Gus doesn't have time to vet them all. Right, Gus?"

She cut off whatever answer Gus would have made. "Shawn. We _talked_ about this. Nothing has changed since what I said on Sunday."

"I'll go find a vending machine," Gus announced, and vanished.

Juliet grabbed Shawn's arm and pulled him further away from Carlton's room. "Seriously? I told you I can't move in with you right now and I told you Gus is not helping to choose our place. These are simple statements, Shawn, and you are a very intelligent person so I know you understood them."

"Understanding and accepting aren't the same, and you're under so much self-imposed stress that you don't know what you're saying."

"Self-imposed? What does that mean? I'm only _imagining_ there's a good reason to stay with Carlton?"

"Come away from here," he cajoled. "Sunshine. Smoothies. Sanity."

_Sanity? Oh, hardly._

"My partner." She struggled to keep her voice even. "My partner was _shot_. In a way, he was shot because of you."

His hazel eyes widened. "What the hell?"

"You and your crack-brained idea to scam Kate and Chavo out of their film award led us to follow you up into the woods to see if you and Gus were all right. If we hadn't done that…"

His mouth hung open. "Sweetie, you've lost it if you think Lassie getting shot was my fault."

"Yeah? Maybe I _have_ lost it. Or maybe _you_ have, pretending what I say to you doesn't matter. That whatever I want, whatever I ask, can be _ignored_. I'm not moving in with you right now, Shawn. If I am ever ready to move in with you, and right now that's _incredibly_ unlikely, there is no way in even the suburbs of hell that Gus is going to have anything to do with choosing the place. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? Are you getting any psychic vibrations here?"

No easing into the breakup, she understood. This was it.

Shawn put his hands up and backed away slightly, and she realized she'd advanced upon him without even noticing. "Okay. Look. You _are_ stressed out. I get it. I'm stressed out too, you know, because my girlfriend doesn't want to live with me and I have to find a new place to live in a couple of weeks and I could end up on the streets because Gus won't take me in and living with my dad again will just be an ugly, ugly experience. So in stress terms, I kinda think we're even."

This was one of those times when she understood how close Carlton had come, so very many times, to simply shooting him and turning in his badge afterward without protest.

"Even," she repeated.

"Yeah." He smiled. "Right?"

"I don't think so. You've managed to find about eight hundred places to live in the last twenty years, by your own admission, so you're not exactly helpless. You could even—and this is a shocker, I know—sign a new lease to stay right where you are. Imagine the stunning simplicity of that! Yes! While I do my best to stand by my partner, who could have _died_ last week, first because he was nearly drowned after getting caught in a bear trap, and second because he was fricking _shot_ _in the back_, you could—and I know this is a real reach—you could just stay where the hell you are! Oh my God, the unbelievable stress you must be going through!"

He blinked.

Juliet—seeing glares from the nurses' station at her volume—forced herself to take a breath. And another step back.

"Um. I'm also putting together the footage from Operation BigSerb," he offered. "Gus is helping. We'll have a viewing at the station next week. So, I guess I could get back to that."

"I guess you could." Each word felt like a chunk of ice.

"We'll talk soon," he said brightly, and with a cautious pat to her shoulder, made a rapid retreat.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton could hear the voices—Juliet's angry tone in particular—but not the words. He didn't care much: he was tired, and Statler's advice was fresh on his mind. That Juliet was in the process of being aggravated by her boyfriend was all the more reason to keep his distance.

After the phone session ended, he'd remained in the chair and fallen into restless sleep until the nurse came back to urge him up and back to bed. His shoulder was killing him, his leg ached, and he felt every one of his forty-four years and then some. Hard to believe that a week ago he'd started his day with a brisk run, chugged down a gallon of coffee and had no idea he'd meet up with a bear trap after lunch.

Juliet came back in, tense and still angry. "I am so sorry."

"For what?"

She hoisted herself up onto his bed. "For his existence."

Carlton grinned. "Not your fault."

Slowly she relaxed, and he was glad for that. "They gave you a cane?"

"I stole it from a doctor. Think his name was House."

Juliet grinned too, and he was proud to have made her feel better. "Probably not. Has Nurse Wendy forgiven me?"

"Forget you; she hasn't forgiven _me_."

"For what?"

"_My_ existence," he said dryly, and she laughed.

He was just thinking about inviting her to come sit in his lap and let him kiss her again when his doctor came in, Wendy in tow.

Juliet hung back—she wouldn't leave when asked and Wendy didn't push it today—while they looked at his shoulder and leg and another nurse came in to apply new dressings. He felt a little exposed, bare-chested, but didn't imagine he was anyone's idea of a pinup right now, let alone Juliet's.

They hustled him back to his bed during this process, and the doctor said, "Everything looks good for your release on Friday afternoon. Now, this is contingent upon arrangements for a home health care worker to come and check on your wounds at least once over the weekend, and you'll need to come see me on Monday afternoon."

"Set up the visit," Carlton said. Home was better than here.

"Someone should stay with you over the weekend," the doctor added. "We don't want you falling or overdoing it. The shoulder is a complicated set of muscles and joints and as you already know, every little move you make calls on those muscles and joints."

Juliet barely waited for him to stop talking. "I'll be there."

Carlton looked at her, uncertain. "You don't have to do that."

She glanced at him only briefly, and repeated to the doctor, "I'll stay with him. It's no problem, and he's exactly the kind of bullheaded person who _would_ overdo it rather than ask for help."

Wendy snorted back amusement, and Carlton glared at her to no avail.

"Sounds like it's settled, then."

"It is," Juliet said firmly.

Okay, then. He would be trying to take his psychologist's advice about keeping his distance from Juliet at precisely the time she would pretty much move into his condo.

Yeah… Fate was a smartass little bitch.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet had to leave Carlton at one for her meeting with the SBPD shrink, and there was no time to talk to him about anything because no sooner had the doctor and nurse left than his sister Lauren arrived.

She wanted to talk to him, yes she did. She wanted to soothe away his exhaustion and tell him not to obsess about the kiss, even though she was still obsessing herself and he looked surprisingly kissable even tired and unshaven and not to mention… not to mention… _oh, God, not to mention_ how it was to see him sitting sans shirt, all lean and delectable, while the nurse and doctor messed with his back. No, she wouldn't be mentioning that.

Out in the sunshine, drinking in light and air and reality, she called Gentry's advice to mind front and center.

_You cannot toy with Carlton while you are still with Shawn, and even if you end it with Shawn, you have to be sure Carlton's not unduly affected by what he's just been through. Same goes for you, Miss Thang._

That wasn't exactly how Dr. Gentry had phrased it, but it was close enough.

The department psychologist, Dr. Erlich, was a mild sort of fellow, asking reasonable questions about what happened in the woods. His focus was on her state of mind then and now; after all, she'd killed a man in the line of duty and had operated under high stress conditions to keep the civilians safe under the unexpected attack.

He wasn't interested in whether she had romantic feelings toward anyone, and had no reason to inquire. He was interested in how doing her job last week had affected her ability to do her job in the future.

He already knew she'd physically attacked (or tried to) the last Serb after his arrest, and he questioned her about her anger.

But Juliet didn't have time to dwell on this. Not now. Besides, the actual events were off in an odd little bubble of surreality, something which happened to some other cop in some other life.

She did what she did because it had to be done, and had no regrets about any of her actions (other than not smacking the others repeatedly for their grossly insensitive remarks about Carlton). She'd never even been within twenty feet of the man she killed, she never saw his face, and she wasn't going to be having nightmares about him because _he'd_ been trying to kill her friends and her partner and she had refused to let that happen.

Dr. Erlich listened to her answers, made notations in her file, and cleared her for duty.

She went to see Karen Vick next and asked for the rest of the week off.

Karen said, "I'm sorry, Detective, but I really need you back here. You and Lassiter out simultaneously is creating quite a backlog."

Juliet deflated. "Oh. But…"

"I'm sorry," Karen said again. "There's just too much work to be done, and he'd already been out the week before for the convention."

The convention. Eons ago. The log file… she was kind of stunned how far away all that seemed—how the _circumstances_ of learning Carlton's feelings for her had been dwarfed by knowing they existed, along with realizing the depth of her own.

Still, her disappointment was keen. "I understand. May I have Friday afternoon off at least? Carlton's supposed to go home that day and I'd like to get him there and situated. Oh, and I have a doctor's appointment at nine. I can be here a little after ten."

The Chief thought about it, frowning. "All right. And please know I do understand your situation. It's just… crime doesn't stop, and who knows when he can come back to work?"

"He'll be back sooner than advised, you can count on that."

"I'm sure, but it'll still be awhile. How is he? I want to stop by on my way home tonight."

"Better. Cranky. His sister was there when I left." Juliet was suddenly tired. "When I got there, I had to run Shawn and Gus out."

Karen sighed. "Sorry."

"Me too," she agreed. "I'll see you first thing in the morning."

"Glad to hear it."

Juliet wasn't glad to say it.

She didn't _want_ to do her job right now, and she especially didn't want to do it without Carlton, and not knowing how long he'd be out made her want to get back to it even less.

None of this could she say to Karen Vick, however.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lauren, he explained to Juliet after dinner, was of the opinion he should come recuperate at her house.

Juliet went very still.

Carlton wasn't too keen on the idea, which is why he hadn't mentioned it when Juliet returned from the station that afternoon. He knew Lauren would take good care of him, and she seemed to have forgotten the sucktasticness of his personality as evidenced during the polar bear investi-fiasco.

"But that's several hours from here," Juliet finally said cautiously.

"It's not my first choice. But she's working from home right now so she'd be with me during the day. Not that I _need_ anyone there," he amended with only minor huffiness, "but you could get back to your life."

She rolled her eyes. "Carlton, _this_ is what I want to be doing."

He wanted to believe it. "Don't you have to get ready to move?" It had occurred to him that it wasn't only Spencer's lease which was up soon.

Juliet set down the soda she'd brought in and went to the window, looking out at the parking lot lights below. "No." Her voice was soft, and after a few moments, she added, "I never gave notice. I should have done it two weeks ago but I just… didn't." She glanced at him hesitantly, dark blue eyes uncertain. "I'm a coward."

Familiar impatience—how could she doubt herself?—rose within him. "If Spencer were anyone other than Spencer, I might buy that. You're no coward, O'Hara. No more than any of the rest of us where he's concerned."

"I'm more of a coward than you are." She was still quiet.

But she didn't understand the full measure of _his_ personal cowardice. "The hell you are, and we're not arguing this point."

Juliet paced the room for a bit and then hopped up to sit on the end of his bed, hands tucked under her thighs.

He watched her from the chair. She seemed unlikely to say anything else. "Do I need to apologize for yesterday?"

_Wow, you said that without any stumbling._

Her gaze was on him instantly, bright and fierce. "You wouldn't get even halfway through it before I punch you so hard they'll ban me from the hospital for life."

Carlton swallowed, simultaneously feeling warmth and goosebumps.

"Okay," he said slowly.

"Please don't go to Lauren's." Her fierceness faded and she was almost pleading. "I know it's selfish but I just don't want you that far away. I mean, it really _is_ selfish, because Chief Vick expects me back at work tomorrow. But I have Friday afternoon off and I want to be the one who looks after you, Carlton. I want to be able to see you every day and if you go up to Lauren's I won't be able to do that."

For a second he couldn't remember how to breathe. She was so lovely, so sincere, so earnest.

And so _lucky_ he couldn't leap out of the chair to drag her to him and never let go.

"I can stay in your spare room and I won't nag you too much and I can make sure you get breakfast and dinner and I'll come by at lunch too. You can talk me through the cases and…" She trailed off, looking embarrassed. "You think I'm silly?"

He shook his head.

Juliet hugged herself hard. "And if you really do want to stay with Lauren—"

"I don't," he interrupted. "I want to stay in my own place."

_With you._

She beamed. "Really?"

"With you."

God, he was an idiot.

But Juliet smiled, jumped down off the bed and came to where he sat, bending to kiss his forehead, smoothing his hair back with one gentle hand. "Good," she whispered, her breath soothing against his suddenly hot skin. "And I was serious about punching you."

Somewhere he found his voice. "Never doubted it, partner."

Certainly he never would again.

He ignored the sound of Statler chuckling in the back of his mind.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The rest of the week passed quietly.

When she saw him in the mornings and evenings, Carlton was increasingly restless and ready to be home, and Juliet was restless at the station without him. There was so much work, and no sounding board for her ideas and theories.

Shawn bopped in and out several times each day, more and more someone she simply didn't want to see. He talked animatedly of the work he and Gus were doing on the documentary. Kate and Chavo had surrendered their footage to serve as evidence against the Serbs, and he was turning all of the combined footage into one film he hoped would win the Student Academy Awards, still unable to grasp that he was ineligible due to not _actually_ being a student.

Being with Carlton at the end of each day was what she needed. His mood always softened when she came in, even if he was in the middle of a pitched battle of wills with Nurse Wendy, and although he would most likely never admit it, she suspected he pitched those battles in part to pass the time.

He was walking with the cane more and learning how to get in and out of the bed without twisting his upper body too much. The nurses said he was growling at them regularly, which was a good sign even if it put him on their Bad Patient list. (She was grateful they liked _her_.)

On Thursday evening she asked Wendy carefully, "What about… personal care? I know the home health nurse will change his bandages on Saturday but what about bathing?"

Wendy, the first best witness to their kiss, gave her a wicked smile. "You don't want to take care of that yourself?"

Juliet flushed and resisted the urge to snap at her. "We're not that close."

_Yet_.

"Coulda fooled me," Wendy said dryly. "But he'll be all right. No showers or baths yet, but if he sits down, he can probably wash up pretty well one-handed. Don't be too far away while he's doing it, but let him try it on his own if he wants." She consulted the laptop she was carrying, her mind already on something else. "You might have to help him wash his hair," she added as an afterthought, and excused herself while Juliet's mind went blank.

Well, not blank.

_Sproing_.

She went back to Carlton's room, where he was watching the early news, and couldn't stop looking at his tousled black and silver hair. She already knew it was soft and thick and oh-so-very-nice to touch, but the idea of washing it for him was so unutterably intimate that she was suffused with warmth from head to toe and many points in between.

Fanning herself with his breakfast menu for the morning, she settled into the chair and put her feet up on the ottoman.

Carlton looked over at her. "You okay?"

"Yes, I am. You?"

He frowned. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Juliet laughed. "Because you're in the hospital?"

Now he scowled. "I don't think they're asking about my shoulder or my leg. More like about my mood."

"Well, that's important too, isn't it?"

"Your smile makes me suspicious, O'Hara."

"You were _born_ suspicious, Lassiter."

A reluctant smile curved his mouth. "Don't tell anyone."

"Oh, that secret was out a long time ago." She basked in the warmth of his broadening smile, and felt selfishly pleased to know she was one of the chosen few who could earn it.

"Thank you for being here," he said abruptly. Quietly.

Juliet took a breath as her heart skipped a little. "Thank you for letting me be here."

"Easiest choice I've ever made." He looked away, back to the TV, but Juliet saw the color in his cheeks, even as heat bloomed in her own.

_Oh, Dr. Gentry. _

_I don't see how much longer I can last._

But she would have to, and it would be worth it.

Still, before she left that night, she went to his bed and kissed his cheek again, curling her fingers around his briefly as he sighed.

And she had a feeling she was going to want to do that every night from now on.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	12. Chapter 12: Home Again, Home Again

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The coffee cup sat in the drainer, a small plate upended beside it. One knife rested on the counter.

A dish towel was draped over the edge of the sink. A dry-cleaning pickup reminder was attached to the fridge door.

Juliet stared at these ordinary items in Carlton's kitchen, these signs of a 'normal' morning in a 'typical' day, and tears came to her eyes.

Ridiculous, pointless tears—tears of a delayed reaction.

He had left his condo on Tuesday morning last week after what was presumably a quick breakfast, possibly just toast and coffee, and now a week and a half was gone.

So much more could have been gone.

_He_ could have been gone.

She brushed the tears away and went back to what she'd came in here to do: check the pantry before she made a grocery store run.

Carlton was on the sofa, resting; he'd refused to go further when she finally got him home after his discharge from the hospital. It had been a slow and painful walk from the car up the sidewalk, into the building, into the elevator and down the long hall to his condo, and even if the rest of his body _thought_ it had the stamina, his beleaguered leg admitted otherwise in a hurry.

Still, he wouldn't be Carlton if he hadn't expressed some level of stubbornness, and stopping at the sofa—"I'm not getting all the way home just to go back to bed, O'Hara"—was it.

She put pillows around him and propped up his leg comfortably on the coffee table, and he was nodding off before she got halfway to the kitchen. Pausing a moment to look back at him, his eyes closed, long dark lashes vivid against his pale skin, she had fought back a serious urge to go put her head in his lap, basking in the warmth he exuded despite everyone's assumption he was cold and unfeeling.

Once the grocery list was made and she was ready to go, she sank into one of the dining room chairs, tired beyond all reason.

Dr. Gentry had reminded her this morning that she'd been running on adrenalin and stress and emotion for over a week. Her crash was coming, and she should let it happen sooner rather than later.

But there was so much to do. So much she wanted to do.

… still, maybe just a _short_ rest.

She went quietly to the sofa, careful not to disturb Carlton, and curled up on the cushions next to him. She needed to be close, and was pretty sure he wouldn't mind.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When he woke, he ached.

The TV was dark and the room was silent, but something about his familiar and solitary home was different.

It felt warmer somehow… it felt like Juliet.

After a moment, he realized she was lying on the sofa next to him, and his heart stuttered at how lovely she was in sleep.

He had not missed, over the past week, her growing weariness. While he was glad to have her with him, he knew she needed her own downtime. She had insisted her downtime was with him, and he could never detect any sign she was simply trying to be nice or acting out of obligation, so he'd let her stay with him every day as long as she'd liked. Maybe her tiredness had increased since she went back to work.

It was good to be out of the hospital, and better at home with her here.

He lifted his hand and stroked her hair, because he hoped he was allowed to do that. It was so soft, the gold picking up the light from the window.

Juliet stirred, mumbling something, but his hand would not still itself; he went on stroking gently until her dark blue eyes opened and she tilted her head to smile sleepily at him.

"Hey," she murmured, and scooted closer, and thus it was he found her head in his lap and his hand now stroking her upper arm and shoulder. "That's nice."

"Hmmm," he agreed, unsure he could still speak English. The skin of her cheek looked soft and he desperately wanted to know if he was right.

Juliet covered his hand with her own, linking her fingers with his.

As if they were _made_ to be intertwined.

Carlton swallowed back the yearning and rested his head on the back of the sofa, because if he went on looking at her he would do something stupid. But he kept his hand locked with hers, and she fell asleep again holding onto him just as firmly as he held onto her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet came back from the store and pharmacy long after dusk had fallen; they'd had a simple dinner of what was left in his freezer after a good long rest. She felt better, and knew he did too simply by virtue of being home.

She was smiling at how lovely it had been—just as she imagined—to put her head in his lap, with the bonus of clasping his hand and feeling perfectly content, certain as well that he felt the same way. Dr. Gentry had pointed out several times that she shouldn't assume Carlton's feelings were the same as he'd stated in the chat log two months ago, and she knew he was right, but… she also knew he was wrong.

Carlton might be fighting it, or denying it, or even still willing to delude himself, but the way he looked at her, the way he let himself touch her—the way he'd kissed her on Monday—the way he softened around her, the way he sounded just _talking_ to her: those feelings were still there.

The door to the condo wasn't completely closed, and she tensed immediately, shifting the bags to her left hand and reaching for her service weapon with the other.

But after she listened a moment, voices became audible, so she pushed the door open slowly to hear better.

Dammit, it was Shawn and Gus. With Henry and Woody, no less.

They didn't notice her at first, which gave her time to assess.

Carlton and Henry sat on the sofa, and in profile she thought Carlton looked… okay. Not even remotely annoyed, in fact, and listening as Henry talked to him animatedly.

Shawn, Gus and Woody were to the left, having some sort of equally lively discussion about Carlton's sword. It seemed to be about Carlton nearly killing Gus with it, and Woody looked totally shocked, which suggested to Juliet yet again that he had the memory of a gnat.

"Jules!" Shawn exclaimed, and the other four men turned to see her. He approached—but didn't take the bags or even offer to; he kissed her cheek and smiled as if everything was good between them.

_So observant, yet so blind._

"Hey, guys. When did the party start?"

Henry stood up, immediately apologetic. "Sorry, kid. I came over to visit with Lassiter—figured we could compare notes on post-gunshot recovery—but I didn't think to lock the door behind me."

"Dad, you make it sound like we just barged in!"

"You _did_ just barge in." Henry's miss-nothing gaze zoomed in on Shawn. "I would never have sprung four people on an invalid."

"I'm not an invalid," Carlton grumbled.

Henry rolled his eyes.

"Point taken," Carlton amended.

"The door was wide open!" Shawn protested.

Woody said innocently, "Actually, as I recall, it was shut."

"And you muttered something about trying to pick the lock, as _I_ recall," Gus added.

"I did call first." Shawn finally took the bags out of Juliet's hands, as if being useful now would win him some belated good will.

"When? I've been with you the last two hours. I don't remember you calling either Juliet or Lassiter."

Henry held up his hands. "The point is, Shawn brought them in. _I _actually knocked and was _invited_ to come in by the invalid."

"I'm not a—crap, never mind." Carlton, who had learned more tricks with the cane, managed to get into a standing position on his own despite starting out from the depths of the sofa cushions.

Shawn—still holding the bags—protested yet again. "We came over to tell you the good news. That is," he added with a pointed glance at Juliet, "since I assumed this is where I'd find _both_ of you."

In irritation at his tone, Juliet snatched the bags away. "And? What's the good news?"

"Gus and I have finished the documentary! We already got Chief Vick's permission to show it Monday morning. You have to come too, Lassie. You're one of the stars."

"Technically we're all the stars," Gus said. "But I suppose getting bear-trapped, nearly drowned, dragged off by Bigfoot and then shot by a Serbian does count for something."

"Not star billing, though," Shawn murmured, as if no one could hear them. "I mean, come on. He was missing from half the movie."

"You know that's right."

_Jerks_, she thought.

Carlton scowled. "I never should have caught that camera."

"Oh, but Lassie, it was so awesomely cool that you did. Anyway, the special worldwide premiere is at eleven o'clock, in the station, in the conference room."

"With a candlestick," Woody added.

"No, Woodman, that's Colonel Mustard."

"Miss Scarlet," Gus said with authority.

"Colonel Mustard," Shawn retorted. "We've been over this."

"Yes, and you're wrong. It had to be Miss Scarlet because Professor Plum had the lead pipe, and—"

"Professor Plum is too classy to use a lead pipe, Gus! He's a professor! They don't use lead pipes!"

"Oh, so I suppose you think he'd use a wrench instead?"

"Plum is purple, Gus, and purple is for royalty, and royalty would never use a lead pipe. A dagger, yes. Definitely a revolver, but never a lead pipe."

"Elitist," Gus snapped. "Haven't you ever heard of the element of surprise?"

They were in each other's faces now, revving up an old and stupid argument. Juliet sighed and carried the bags to the kitchen, listening with one ear as Henry finally shut them up and told Carlton they'd _all_ be leaving now.

She came back out to find Shawn was still talking—then again, when _wasn't_ he talking?—and she had just glanced in Carlton's direction when Shawn said, "We've invited Kate and Chavo too!"

Juliet and Carlton both froze.

"Kate's awesome," Shawn said happily. "I mean, for a woman who can't keep her clothes on. Though of course being willing to take them off anytime, anywhere, is a large part of what makes her awesome."

"Not that you would know anything about her taking her clothes off," Gus said disapprovingly. "Just like I wouldn't know that either."

"I'd like to meet Kate," Woody said enthusiastically. "Do you suppose she'll be wearing clothes on Monday?"

Henry sighed loudly.

Juliet was completely preoccupied with the memory of Carlton kissing her. She looked past the others, into his intense blue gaze, and wondered if he was remembering it too.

His expression said what she knew he would never vocalize: _yes_.

"We're going now." Henry clutched Shawn's arm and led him out first.

Gus didn't need urging, but after a short and muffled argument in the hall, he was sent back in to collect Woody, who was still there smiling beatifically at Carlton and Juliet, each in turn—and was quite sad to learn he wasn't staying for an extended chat.

After the door was closed, Juliet regained her ability to move and promptly went to lock and deadbolt it.

Carlton spoke from behind her, and she turned (leaning against the door _just in case_) to see him. "Henry showed up about ten minutes after you left. The rest of them snuck in a couple minutes after that."

"Are you all right? I mean, blood-pressure-wise?"

He managed a smile, one he wouldn't have bothered with for anyone else (she knew it). "I concentrated on talking to Henry."

"Most people don't have gunshot stories to share, I guess."

"Yeah, but I wasn't about to die from mine," he said soberly.

"You might have been." Her near-whisper surprised her; in her mind, she'd spoken at a normal volume. "If we couldn't get help."

He shook his head. "You were there. No question but I'd make it out."

She was immeasurably touched by his staunch tone, and couldn't hide the tears in her eyes. "You give me too much credit."

"That's not possible, Juliet." He was speaking as quietly as she was.

It was either run over there and squeeze him, arm-in-a-sling be damned, or go for the box of tissues on the end table; she chose the latter, not even remotely embarrassed for him to see her sniffly.

But then she stood before him and reached up to touch his cheek, smiling, for her heart was full of… everything. "Thank you for your faith in me."

Carlton nodded. "It's not even a choice."

_Ohhh…_

_I have to do this. I _want_ to do this. I am not even remotely capable of resisting this._

Juliet stood on tiptoes and kissed his lean face, and when he sighed, she adjusted her position and kissed his mouth.

Lightly at first, but with intent.

He turned toward her, returning her kiss with gentle, deliberate heat.

They really shouldn't, but they were—for now.

Light, sweet kisses; well beyond friendship and partnership and definitely into territory neither one of them should be exploring.

But Juliet had no idea how to stop kissing him, this man she shouldn't kiss, because now that she'd started, there seemed no better place to be than close to his warmth, tasting his lips and feeling him taste hers.

However, his battle-weary body finally had its say: whether it was his leg protesting, or perhaps she accidentally jostled his bad arm, he stiffened in pain and she immediately withdrew, asking if he was all right.

"Yeah," he said, but it was half-gasped, and the desire she saw in his ocean-blue eyes was fading as the pain returned and they were both reminded that only a week and a half had passed since his major injuries had occurred.

"Liar. You need to get to bed. Come on, soldier." Juliet took firm grasp of his good arm. "You want to wash up first?"

He said yes, so she led him down the hall, encouraging him to lean on her as well as the cane. She left him in the bathroom while she went to pull back his sheets and fluff his pillows, and when he made his way back to her, she helped his unresisting form into the bed he'd missed so long.

His energy seemed to have drained away in a matter of moments, taking even his will to resist.

Juliet smiled down at him, giving into the urge to stroke his hair back and kiss his forehead as she had the other night. "Yell if you need me. Your pain meds are right here on the bedstand with some water."

Carlton murmured his thanks, and she thought later that he was asleep before she even made it to the door.

As for her, sleep was a long time coming.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	13. Chapter 13: All Comes Out In The Wash

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

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_(Don't get excited at two chapters in two days; it's a fluke, I tell ya, a fluke!) (Oh, and **hfce**: this one's for you.)_

**. . . .  
****. . .**

It was both easier and harder to get out of his own bed Saturday morning. His bed was closer to the floor than the one in the hospital, but there was no one to help him twist and make that first upward move.

_I'm getting too old for this._

He knew he could summon Juliet, but he also needed to do this on his own, get his strength back, and be independent again. She might be willing to stay for a few days but he'd have to send her home Sunday night for good.

Maybe Monday. Tuesday at the latest.

Wednesday might work.

No: Sunday night. Because as long as she was still with Spencer, he couldn't take the chance he might lose his self-control again like he had last night.

Yes, she had initiated the kiss. But _he_ didn't push her away. Which he should have done. Instantly. Because despite being beautiful and warm and delicious and magical and perfect, she was someone else's woman, and that someone wasn't Carlton Lassiter.

He scratched his stubbly jaw and then shoved his hand through his hair, standing in the middle of the room debating his next move.

_Forward_ would be good. Forward toward coffee, food, and Juliet, even if he couldn't/shouldn't/hopedhewouldn't partake of the latter.

Finding the cane, he propelled himself out of the order at 'coast' speed and eventually wound up in the kitchen doorway, where Juliet was humming as she scrambled eggs and tomatoes.

"Good morning! You're just in time." She looked rested, her smile as radiant as ever. "How are you feeling?"

As she asked, she also poured him a cup of coffee and held out the heavenly brew, taking his cane so he could have a sip before she guided him back out to the table.

"Sit and drink and I'll bring you some breakfast in a minute."

He realized he'd never said a word, but she probably knew how he was feeling anyway.

When she came back out, she set the plate in front of him—the eggs plus toast—and then went down the hall into his bedroom, returning with the bottle of pain pills.

"Bet you refused to take these today, didn't you."

"I took some last night." He'd woken about an hour after she put him to bed, knowing he wouldn't sleep again unless he gave in and took the damn pills.

Juliet set the bottle down with a little smack. "I'll bring you some water, and you'll take these."

"Yes, nurse," he groused.

She only laughed merrily, and soon afterward sat near him with her own plate of eggs.

So they weren't going to talk about it.

Just as they hadn't talked about the Monday kiss, they weren't going to talk about the one last night.

He thought maybe this was the right thing to do. Putting words to what happened would require acceptance and possibly _analysis_ of what happened, and while he thought he could 'discuss' it with Statler if pressed, nagged and/or provoked, he wasn't sure he was ready to look into Juliet's lovely dark blue eyes and say everything his heart wanted him to say.

Which could actually be summed up in seven simple words: _please_ _love me like I love you_.

Suddenly he felt old and impossibly achy, and that's when he reached for the pill bottle.

Juliet gave him a judicious stare. "The home health care nurse will be here at eleven, and I was thinking you might like to have a semi-bath before then?"

He felt his eyes widening in pre-shock.

Seeing this, she hurriedly added, "I bought you something at the drugstore," and got up quickly to bring a bag in from the kitchen. Pulling out a tall bottle, she showed it to him as she sat down again. "It's No-Rinse Body Wash. Wendy recommended it. You'll only need a wet washcloth and this stuff. I'll put a chair in the bathroom and you should be able to clean up quite nicely."

Carlton examined the bottle. He hadn't been too keen on the nurse-assisted bathing in the hospital, so being able to do this on his own was appealing (although _Juliet_-assisted bathing was unsurprisingly a very tempting idea).

Then she said, "I'll have to help you wash your hair. I don't think you can do that on your own with one hand. The washing maybe, but not the rinsing if you have to bend over the sink, watch your bad arm and try not to fall at the same time."

He looked up at her, startled anew, and instantly felt like raking his hand through his hair again.

"It looks fine," she assured him. "But if you're like me, you can _feel_ when it needs to be washed. So when you're ready, I'll help." She turned back to her eggs—bless her.

He composed himself enough to follow suit. "Thanks."

That was enough for now, because it was all he could manage.

After breakfast and another cup of coffee (she admitted it was half-decaf, but he didn't hold it against her), Juliet set one of the chairs in the bathroom next to the sink and set a washcloth and towel within easy reach. She brought him clean clothes, and he was about to thank her again when she said yet another terrifying thing.

"Um, let me help you get your shirt off."

He might have passed out but for the cane holding him up.

Mumbling something, he stood helpless as she carefully unhooked the sling, then unbuttoned his shirt. Without saying anything else, she slid the shirt off his good shoulder and moved behind him so she could ease it off his bad shoulder, very slowly slipping it down his arm without him having to move it much.

He was caught in a breathless state of loving the feel of her hands brushing his skin and resisting the pain the movement of his arm caused. She was impossibly gentle, and when she had pulled the shirt completely free, she stood before him with flushed cheeks of her own and he wasn't aroused at all, no he wasn't, not in the least, standing shirtless in front of this woman who had kissed him last night of her own free and loving will.

_Loving will._

Carlton swallowed. "Thanks."

She said nothing; re-attaching the sling, she got his arm situated again and then said somewhat breathlessly that she'd be out in the hall, and he should be careful. The door closed behind her, and Carlton sank into the chair, weak for reasons other than physical injuries.

_Focus and remember reality, idiot._

_Because even though reality bites, it IS._

The No-Rinse had an unobtrusive light scent, and with a minimum of fuss he was able to wash until he felt clean and refreshed again. A shower would have been heaven, or even a bath, but they had been emphatic at the hospital: keep the bandages and stitches dry.

The towel she'd placed helped to blot the rest of the dampness, and he got his pants on without embarrassing himself by falling over or tangling the legs. He got up and looked at his hair in the mirror, and it did need a wash. (It also had too much gray in it for his tastes, but he refused to go the Grecian Formula For Denial route.)

_She's going to come in here and touch you again to get the clean shirt on. She's going to ask you about your hair. _

_And you, you spineless selfish dumbass, have the will of a moth against the lure of a Klieg light. _

"Juliet," he called out.

She opened the door and came in, smiling. "Feel better?"

"Much. I'm… going to take you up on the hairwashing offer. If you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all. Shall we get your shirt on first?"

_Because she decided she doesn't like my chest pelt after all._

"Though I'll probably end up getting the collar wet," she added. "It's up to you."

There went his voice again. "Off," he said, because he was an idiot.

Juliet only smiled, and moved the chair up against the sink. When he sat again and tilted his head back, she had a good working position, and she hummed softly as she began.

He could smell her—light, floral, wonderful—and she brushed up against his bare shoulder and arm probably unintentionally as she used a large cup to pour water on his hair and then added shampoo.

Somehow, he did not ooze off the chair into a puddle of broken goop when her lovely and nimble fingers slid into his soapy hair, gentle against his scalp and completely hypnotic.

The soothing humming continued, and with his eyes closed he tried to convince himself he was just in the hair salon—no, an old-style barbershop, with a mustachioed old guy as his attendant. This _was_ not, _could_ not be the most intimate act he had never even _thought_ to imagine between himself and Juliet.

She gently washed, she thoroughly rinsed—even the warm water felt like heaven now—and she pulled another towel out of his cabinet. Standing over him so close and warm, she smiled and said something he couldn't hear over the roaring in his veins. She began to towel-dry his hair gently, soaking up excess water and patting the back of his neck as well, and then like a man who'd been in the desert for a month without water, he reached up and cupped her soft cheek and sighed out her name.

"Oh, Carlton," she breathed, and met his kiss.

In the same moment she swung one leg over his so she was straddling him in the chair, and with his good arm he encircled her slim body tightly.

Not too tightly—she was careful not to press against his arm in the sling—but this distance had no effect on the depth and the heat of their kiss.

He couldn't hold back his passion, not anymore. His tongue demanded to know more of hers, and she gave him free rein insomuch as it didn't interfere with her exploration of his mouth in turn.

But that wasn't the limit of their explorations. Juliet kissed his jaw and his stubbly cheeks and trailed fingertips damp from his hair down his throat and when she kissed his chest, the arousal he felt was nearly overpowering. Her lips brushing his skin was inexpressibly erotic.

The scent of her, the warmth of her, the way she moved in his lap—Carlton knew she wanted him.

_And if he could have her… _

He reclaimed her luscious mouth, drinking her in, tasting her with the possessiveness of a man who thinks he has a chance, and Juliet shifted again in his lap, tormenting him with more than a 'mere' kiss.

There was no way she couldn't feel his desire.

And no way she wanted him to misinterpret hers: she sat back and pulled off her shirt, and he absorbed the sight of her pale rose bra before she leaned in closer again and kissed him hungrily.

He caressed her nearly-bare back, tugging her closer to him, and her thighs tightened around his.

One hand scratching against his chest hair and the other sliding around his shoulder, Juliet took as much from his kiss as he was drawing from hers.

Drinking from each other.

That's what it was.

Feeding each other.

One being.

Juliet cupped his face with her hands and sighed against his mouth. She sighed his name with longing.

"We can't," he said hoarsely.

Well…

They _could_… he wagered if they got to the bed she could stay on top and they _could_ very damn well indeed.

But they couldn't.

In the pause—blue eyes searching blue eyes—and from down the hall, there was a knock on the front door.

"Your nurse," Juliet said wistfully. "To change your bandages."

_And maybe give you a shot of Stop Tempting Another Man's Girl._

Juliet got off his lap and told him to sit still, but after she put her shirt back on and went to let the nurse in, he stood up shakily and looked in the mirror.

Who the hell was that guy? Mussed damp hair, glazed eyes, no conscience?

And who the hell was that beautiful young woman in the living room?

_Somebody else's_, he reminded himself harshly.

Where was Statler when he needed him…

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The nurse, not unlike Althea in her demeanor and bearing, had been and gone, fixing Carlton up and declaring everything looked good to her, only follow the doctor's orders without fail.

Lauren came by just as the nurse was leaving, and Juliet was grateful because she needed a little more time to absorb everything.

She left Lauren chatting happily with her big brother; she had brought lunch for them all and after they dined on paninis out on the patio, Juliet told them she was off to run a few errands. She caught Carlton's questioning gaze but knew, the way she just _knew_, that he wasn't expecting an encore even if they remained alone.

In her car, she drove to the beach and sat for a little while staring at the waves; they were the color of Carlton's eyes when he was uncertain or uneasy.

He hadn't been uncertain when they were grinding against each other in the bathroom. There, his eyes had been all heated blue passion.

There, she'd contemplated taking off her clothes and sliding his flannel pants down so she could make love to him right in the chair.

She'd wanted to feel the complete connection of their bodies, a connection she _craved_. She'd wanted his mouth on hers as they wrapped to each other, and she wanted it even now.

Forcing the trembling to cease, she pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket and called the person she'd been avoiding the most.

"Jules!" he exclaimed, all loud bright bold Shawn.

"Hey, Shawn. What's up? Can you talk?"

"I can always _talk_. What's the topic? Wait, don't tell me. You're about to buy a Swiss chalet and you need some advice about what cheeses to stock on the bookshelves."

"Um, no, but thank you for thinking of my open-shelving cheese needs."

"I believe in paying proper homage to fromage, and there's no better place for it than in the home."

Juliet shook her head. Only Shawn. "Where are you? We need to talk."

"Oh, _we_ need to talk," he repeated, not _quite_ sarcastically. "Well, as I said, I can always _talk_, but listening could be a problem at the moment. Gus and I are about to enter the magical world of the Fajita Festival."

She shouldn't have been surprised. "Okay. Maybe we can catch up later."

He tsked. "Might be after midnight. We're in Flamenco."

"Flamenco?"

"Up near Fresno. You can drive up if you want. Should take you under four hours."

Juliet took a moment to calm herself. "You drove four hours for a fajita festival?"

"Jules. It's _fajitas_."

"Well, it would have been nice for you to tell me you were leaving town."

He paused. "I suppose… if I thought you were interested in what I'm up to these days."

It stung, but he was right.

"Okay, I'm sorry."

But not _that_ sorry.

"I know I've been very preoccupied the last couple of weeks. But it's still fresh in my mind that the last time you took a day trip without telling me, three people I know got shot."

Shawn paused again. "This is fajitas, not Bigfoot and armed Serbs. What did you want to talk about?"

"Us," she said simply.

The pause was longer. "Well, Gus and I should be heading back tomorrow afternoon. I'll call you when I get to town. How's that? Unless you want to have an 'us' talk over the phone?"

Part of her did.

"In person is better."

Worse. But fair.

"Okay then," and his tone was bright in a way she knew better than to trust. "I'll call you when we get back."

_Which means I have to keep my hands off Carlton until then._

She gave him a flat goodbye, disconnected and put the phone back in her pocket. It served her right that when she was finally ready to pull the plug, the damned man moved the life support machine into another county.

**. . . .**

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	14. Chapter 14: House Calls, Sort Of

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

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It wasn't as satisfying to prowl the condo when he had to do it with a cane. Prowling required speed, and he had none.

Yet after Lauren left, he couldn't sit still. He couldn't get Juliet out of his head and he couldn't stop reliving the kiss... the kissing… hell, the all-out make-out session.

He knew they would have to talk about it: pretending it hadn't happened wasn't going to work this time. She was going to come home and they would have to talk about it and he had no idea how to explain without revealing everything which it would be unfair to tell her.

Or she would make it clear as soon as she walked in that she wished it hadn't happened. That she'd been out getting her skin flayed off to remove Lassiter-cooties, and then to find a priest to pray for her soul.

Either way, they had to talk, no matter how bad it was going to be.

Statler, in the back of his mind, murmured _why do you always think it's going to be bad?_

_Because it always is._

_Has that been true lately?_

Damn the man.

Carlton 'hurried' to his laptop, which lay on the desk. He would make an appointment to talk to Statler ASAP.

While the laptop whirred its way to wakefulness, he realized the earliest chance to talk to him would be Monday, so long as Juliet was staying in the condo. He would have to insist she go into the station for awhile Monday morning before coming to collect him to see Spencer's documentary—no way was he missing that—and those few hours would leave him an opportunity to talk to the doctor.

Still, it was nearly _two days_ away. This wasn't going to help him at all with the next few _hours_, when Juliet would come home and They Would Have To Talk About It.

He maneuvered the laptop and the sling so he could use both hands ("_don't do that!_" screeched Nurse Wendy), which hurt his arm, but made the typing faster. He reached the site, looked at Statler's availability for Monday morning… but dammit, there was nothing until Tuesday afternoon.

_Crap on a crackery crackhead_, he thought. Well, he'd have to take it; signing up for a timeslot when Juliet would be safely away at work, he added a question in the note field about whether Statler ever had cancellations or took emergency sessions. He knew it was ridiculous and still couldn't believe he was sharing his personal business with anyone other than Juliet, but here he was: seeking and _appreciating_ help.

Next, he'd be signing up for crochet lessons. In front of My Little Pony stores while listening to Raffi.

He signed out, closed the laptop lid, and headed slowly to the kitchen to find something cold to drink, anticipating needing to dunk his whole head in whatever he found. If he dumped the contents of the ice trays into the sink, he could probably get a good brain freeze going pretty fast.

His cell phone rang, from its charger on the counter. Irritated—it would be his mother, complaining he hadn't told her he was out of the hospital—he put down the first ice cube tray and took a scowling glance at the screen.

_Huh._

Peering at it again, he still couldn't believe the number he saw. Shoving the ice tray back in the freezer, he punched the 'talk' button.

"Carlton," Dr. Statler drawled—it was true; easterners could drawl—"what's going on?"

Carlton was as flummoxed as he was relieved. "You're talking to a patient on a Saturday?"

He could almost see the man's shrug.

"Why not? I'm at loose ends, it's a nice sunny day out on the balcony, and when someone like you asks for an emergency session, I'm intrigued enough to let go of my natural laziness. How are you?"

"Confused," he said grimly. _Never mind what "someone like you" meant._

"That's a familiar human state. Got access to a balcony? I highly recommend sitting in the sun now and then for purely psychological benefits."

"I have a patio." And it _was_ a nice day. "Hang on while I get out there."

It was a bit of a slow process, but he made it into the sunshine and into one of the sturdy wooden deck chairs—foot up on another chair—and took a deep breath to settle himself.

"So something happened," Statler prompted. "But first, how are you recovering?"

"Slowly. My arm's in a sling and my leg's wrapped up tight. I'm using a cane for support and checking into movies where the heroes learn to defend themselves with sticks."

Statler laughed. "So physically you have a long way to go but mentally, you're on an even keel."

"Except for Juliet."

"Ah, Juliet. Catch me up on the last few days. I take it you're home from the hospital?"

"Yeah, they let me go on Friday. But Juliet's staying with me."

_And this is both very good and very bad._

"Implicit in that pause is some drama."

"Not… _bad_ drama."

"Hmmm. You have my full attention."

"I didn't have it before?"

"Pardon me. I was sipping a martini."

Carlton wished he was. "Okay. She kissed me last night, we groped each other half-naked this morning, and I don't know what's going to happen when she gets back from her errands. I mean, nothing's going to _happen_ but we'll obviously have to talk about all this and I don't know how to explain myself or how not to react when she tells me not to ever touch her again and I can't send her home because I need someone here but she's so damn good to me that the only way she'd leave is if I was such a prick she had no choice but I don't want to be like that to her, because she doesn't deserve it. On the other hand, it's not like I can tell her I love her and she does still have the asshat in her life, so I can't exactly keep on moving in on that, right? Right. So I'm screwed. Again."

After a moment, Statler said, "I've noticed that the more agitated you are, the more you gloss over the really complicated events and yet somehow always end up with a negative conclusion."

Carlton frowned. "So?" That was normal, and usually worked well.

"So let's start at the beginning of your run-on sentence."

"It was not a run-on sentence. It was several sentences."

"Nonetheless. Start with her kissing you last night. What were the circumstances?"

For a few seconds, he actually had a little trouble remembering anything _before_ she kissed him.

"Uh… the asshat's father stopped by. He's a retired cop who got shot a few months ago, and we compared notes, which I told her about after he left. I said his situation was a lot worse than mine, because it was."

"How so?"

"He was shot in the chest, point-blank. If the asshat hadn't found him immediately afterwards, he'd be dead."

He spared another thought for Henry: good man, good cop. He had a lot to answer for where his son was concerned, but on the other hand, most of Spencer's _good_ qualities probably came from Henry too.

"Anyway," he went on, "Juliet said my situation could have been just as bad and I…" He smiled. "Well, I said there was no way she'd let me die on her watch, and she thanked me for my faith in her, which was never in question anyway, and then she kissed me."

"Sounds encouraging. I assume this wasn't just a kiss on the cheek?"

"Not after the first few seconds."

Statler waited. "Who initiated more?"

"She did."

"Ah. Very interesting."

Carlton said nothing.

The doctor chuckled. "You think it's interesting too but you don't want to say so, because you don't like it when _I_ say something's interesting—even though I'm always right."

"Get on with it," Carlton snapped, but there was no heat in him right now.

"_Interesting_," he repeated deliberately. "And the aftermath?"

"I wore out. My shoulder stabbed me and she put me to bed."

"No discussion of the kiss?"

"You really don't know me at all, do you?"

He thought he detected another low laugh from the east coast.

"Carlton, trying to know you is what this is all about. Give me your interpretation of the incident."

"Dammit. It was just leftover worry from what happened in the woods. She's scared because it could all have been a lot worse. And I _do_ matter to her, yes, I get that now. You don't have to point it out again."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. All right, you still want to believe she's not attracted to you? I'm not saying you're wrong; post-trauma feelings can be very complex."

"I don't see _how_ I can be wrong," Carlton said quietly, feeling his chest tightening at the thought.

"Don't worry; showing you how you're wrong is the whole reason _I'm_ here. However, if we accept your position that last night's kiss was all about fear and guilt, I really am very curious to see how you explain the details on—how did you put it?—this morning's half-naked groping."

Heat flooded his face—partly embarrassment, partly memory (okay, a lot of memory). "Son of a bitch," he breathed. "I know that wasn't all on my side."

"Unless you ripped half her clothes off with your one good arm, no."

Slowly, and sparingly, he described the encounter. He admitted to knowing better and being unable to resist her. He admitted she freely sat in his lap and freely took off her shirt and freely kissed him as if she wanted him and… and wanted more.

"If the nurse hadn't shown up, what would have happened?"

"Nothing. I'd already stopped it."

"She was still in your lap, half-naked."

"Well. One-_fourth_ naked."

"Not the kind of nuance which matters here. How can you be sure she would have backed off, and if she hadn't, how can you be sure you wouldn't have gone further?"

"Because I do have a conscience, dammit, and letting her give herself to me is something she'd hate me for later. Or worse, herself."

"Hmmm. You spend a lot of time thinking about her side of the relationship."

"Yeah?"

"She's a woman."

"Yeah?"

"Whatever amount of time you're spending thinking about her, she's most likely spending three times as much thinking about you."

Carlton was silent.

Statler went on, "In fact, she's probably going through the same mental gymnastics you are to explain her own behavior. After all, she certainly knows she's not available, just as she certainly knows you're not the kind of man who would attempt to seduce her away from her relationship."

A bird landed on the top of the wall across from him, sunshine reflecting off its black and brown feathers.

"She knows I cheated on my wife."

Statler _tsk_ed. "She knows you had an affair with someone you cared about after you'd been separated for two years. There is, I promise you, a distinction to be made there."

The bird pecked at the vine leaves which criss-crossed the top of the wall, eyeing Carlton from time to time.

But Carlton was still unable to find words.

"Yes, you kissed her, but she _chose_ to sit in your lap and prolong the encounter. You didn't pull her there. You didn't hold her there. And you certainly didn't take her shirt off. You've gotten closer and closer in the recent past and I guarantee you this is all on her mind, and yet her message has been consistent. It hasn't been about pity or fear or guilt. It's been about valuing you tremendously."

"She's still with the asshat."

"She's human. She knows you as well as you know yourself, I'd wager, or close enough. She also wants to be at your side right now, and besides that, most people are reluctant to rush into difficult conversations about breaking up. But don't underestimate the significance of the amount of time she's choosing to spend with you over him. You're not at death's door. You _can_ be left alone."

"I'm an escape," he tried. "Not her first choice. And you can't know what she's thinking."

"I don't have to, and I've already admitted that your traumatic events could be clouding her judgment and emotions. But let's keep this simple, and back the discussion up to the main issue."

Carlton sighed; the bird flew away, and a leaf dropped from the ivy down to the patio floor.

"That issue," Statler continued calmly, "being the one we agreed on before. Regardless of what has happened, nothing _more_ should happen until her relationship with her boyfriend ends. Being out of that situation will leave you both free to explore—or rule out—the possibility of a relationship between the two of you."

"Well, I _know_ that. And it's not like I _planned_ to maul her this morning. In fact, my specific goal for the day was to _not_ maul her."

"It was a good goal." Statler was amused again, damn him. "You could always try talking to her."

"Again with the talking," Carlton groused. "Don't you see how that'll make things worse?"

"You mean you're _afraid_ it will."

"No shiitake, Sherlock."

"You're afraid of the results of the conversation," he elucidated.

"You're about a month late to that conclusion, pal, and it won't be a conversation. It'll be a bloodbath. Mine. She'll have no choice but to cut me, and I'll metaphorically bleed out while she's standing there saying sadly that she's sorry and she wishes things could be different."

Statler sighed. "Aren't you bleeding already?"

He drew in a breath.

"Haven't you been bleeding for a long time?"

He had nothing.

"What if your refusal to take the chance on a conversation with her makes her think there's no reason to end her relationship with her boyfriend?"

He counted his heartbeats, increasing in speed.

Finally he ground out, "You shouldn't talk to patients on Saturdays."

Statler was unfazed—he was always unfazed. "You're probably right. But I don't regret talking to you, Carlton. I only regret that you won't talk to her."

Carlton unclenched his fist; it was making his shoulder hurt and he hadn't even realized he was doing it.

"Look. Your options are simple: you can try to pretend nothing has happened, and if by some miracle that actually worked, you'll go on being miserable. Or you can take a chance on the conversation, which will either work to your advantage or not, but at worst, it'll leave you alone with a different kind of misery, a kind of misery I can _help_ you with. I _can't_ help you with the first option, because choosing to be miserable rather than take a chance is an obstacle _I_ can't get around as your psychologist."

The problem with having an intelligent doctor was that sometimes, damn it all, they could not be ignored.

His sigh was profound. "Okay."

"Okay what?

"Okay, I'll think about it."

"Again with the thinking," Statler mocked gently.

"Bite me. I've told you that before, right?"

"Once or twice. I consider it a sign of affection."

"Isn't there some statistic establishing psychologists and psychiatrists are fourteen times more likely to be mentally ill than their patients?"

"Could you be making that number up?"

"I'm an officer of the law. I don't lie."

"You're lying right now."

"I'm on leave. _You're_ drinking."

"So I am," Statler said with a laugh. "Will you consider talking to Juliet?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Just making sure we both heard it."

"Have you ever discussed your trust issues with a professional?"

"I'll promise I'll make an appointment with someone ASAP."

Behind Carlton, the sliding glass door opened, and he wasn't nearly as surprised as he should have been to see Juliet was home, smiling at him and holding two cans of soda.

"Juliet's back," he said into the phone.

"Ah. You're not going to ask me to have a word with her, are you?"

"As if. You'll just say it's _interesting_ and then '_hmmm_' at me." He ignored Statler's laughter. "I'll check in next week."

"Be strong, Carlton."

He wondered at Statler's calm assurance that such a thing was even possible, and disconnected.

"Hi," he said to Juliet, lovely wind-tossed Juliet, as she opened one of the sodas and set it before him.

"Hi." She sat across from him, opening her own soda. "Anyone I know?"

Carlton followed her glance to his phone, and then looked back into her dark blue eyes.

"I was talking to my therapist," he said.

Those lovely eyes widened.

"About you," he added, and the soda slid out of her grasp.

**. . . .**

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	15. Chapter 15: The Main Conversation

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

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**. . .**

Juliet was on her feet in an instant, almost running back inside to fetch paper towels, as if cleaning up the soda was the most important thing in the world.

"Wait," he said resignedly, as his heart sank, but she was too engaged in forward motion.

Well, now he knew.

He'd wait until two a.m. east coast time, call Statler and keep calling until the bastard answered, so he could tell him in no uncertain terms that his asinine advice had just cost him everything, and by the way, he was demanding a refund on all preceding sessions.

_You haven't actually _said_ anything to her yet, ImaginaryStatler said._

_Piss off. I said enough. I said enough to scare her into running for safety._

By the time Juliet got back to the patio—the longest fifteen seconds of his life—he was out of the chair and leaning against the wall, his grip tight on the cane. He had no place else to go, no ability to run, no way to escape.

She knelt to swab the tiles, concentrating on that.

He felt sick, because she couldn't even look at him. That's how horrified she was.

"It's just soda."

"Sugar attracts ants," she said, still wiping.

_And here I am bleeding out, just like I knew I would._

"O'Hara. Juliet. Stop."

Juliet slowly raised her head to meet his gaze.

"It's okay," he said quietly, as if it was. "I just needed a little help figuring some things out. I've been talking to him for awhile now."

She was mute.

"You have nothing to be afraid of. I'm not going to force myself on you again."

At once she stood, clutching the soaked paper towels. "You _never_ forced yourself on me." There was a hint of anger in her tone.

Momentarily, he closed his eyes, but it didn't help.

"You certainly didn't force yourself on me this morning," she reiterated, dropping the towels and coming toward him.

"We've both been through a lot in the last few weeks." He had to stay calm. He could not show his deepening despair because that would only hurt her.

"Try the last few _years_. Carlton, I'm not the one who's afraid."

Well, now he was confused—although not denying his fear. "What do you think we're talking about?"

"I think we're talking about this," she said flatly, and closed the distance between them, stepping up to kiss him.

For a precious few seconds he let himself kiss her back, savoring her warm and needful mouth; then he shifted away from her, keeping to the wall but distancing himself as much as he could.

Which didn't reduce either the fear or the want.

_Focus, focus, dammit, focus!_

Okay, so she was admitting to a physical attraction. Possibly even an emotional one. But not to wanting anything more.

"It's not right for me to…" He paused, and then laughed shortly. "To tempt you. Not while you're in a relationship."

In an instant, her expression became all ire.

"Well, it wasn't right for me to practically give you a lap dance this morning either; or can you find a way to blame yourself for that too?"

Carlton was no longer sure what was happening. First she ran away, and now she was annoyed because he was giving her an escape hatch?

"Listen to me," she said evenly. "Before you say even one more word about how you're going to stand down. Just listen." She put her hand on his arm and he held still, but he could feel the tension nearly jumping off of her.

"Okay."

"When I left here earlier, I fully intended to find Shawn and break it off with him."

Carlton stared at her, trying to make sense of her tone and her body language along with her grip on his arm.

"Unfortunately for both of us, he skipped town to gorge himself on fajitas and won't be back until late tomorrow afternoon. But my intention remains. Do you understand?"

He thought about it. "No. I don't."

"Carlton," she said with exasperation.

"Well, I know you're not saying you're ending the relationship because of me." He knew that much.

"Of course not. I'm ending it because it's a _bad_ relationship and I should have been out of it a long time ago."

"Then why are you telling me this like it has anything to do with—" He cut himself off. "No. I guess I _don't_ understand."

Finally her expression softened, and her grip loosened. "I want to be completely free of him before I… before I resume tempting _you_."

As the words hung between them, Carlton could see her tension slipping away completely. She let go of his arm and just looked at him, seeking acceptance or recognition or some mix thereof.

Her eyes were luminous, and even in the absence of a smile she gave off that quintessentially-Juliet glow of life and liveliness and everything else he loved about her.

"It's been a long time coming, Carlton. I hoped I wasn't the only one glad we finally got here."

His heart skittered, and his leg stabbed at him, but he let go of the cane anyway so he could reach for her. Juliet pressed herself to him, one arm around his back, the other around his waist, and lifted her face for his kiss.

For _their_ kiss.

"You're _not_ the only one," he sighed, and for several minutes she as much held him upright to the wall as he held her tight to his body with his right arm. He kissed her as if she might still vanish from his grasp, but she kissed him as if she knew him down to his core and had no intention whatsoever of ever letting him go.

Resting her head a moment against his shoulder, nuzzling his throat, she sighed, "Do you understand now?"

He answered as honestly as he could. "Not completely."

Juliet grinned. "Come sit down, my pale warrior, and we'll talk it out. Is that what your therapist told you to do?"

"Many, many times."

She laughed, picking up his cane and helping him back inside to the sofa, where he settled and immediately earned gratitude from his leg. Juliet cozied up next to him on his good side, fingertips playing in his hair as if this were all perfectly normal.

"Okay, ground rules."

"Rules?"

"Rules," she repeated firmly. "Number one: you cannot let me give into my inappropriate urges until after I'm officially done with Shawn."

Carlton's eyebrows went up fast. "_Your_ inappropriate urges? What about mine?"

"Please. You're an invalid. You have way more to fear from me than I do from you." She was teasing, her tone half-dismissive, and he had no choice—as a red-blooded male—but to shift toward her, quickly pinning her to the sofa despite his protesting arm, because he was certainly fully functional in every other way.

"Yeah?" he growled against her throat, thinking he'd proved his point until she did some magical shimmying thing underneath him and managed to hook her legs around his thighs, grinding up against him in inexpressibly wicked ways.

And _Lord ha' mercy_, did that feel incredible.

"Yeah," she repeated, and kissed him with a passion which more than matched his.

It couldn't last long—and she was the first to attempt disentangling—for his shoulder and arm were Not Interested in prolonging this position.

With pain reminding him exactly who was boss, he leaned back against the cushions. "Rule One's corollary," he said, out of breath, "is don't call me an invalid."

She was concerned more than amused. "You're pale. Hang on; you probably need some pain pills."

"Not yet. We have more rules to cover."

Juliet assessed him critically. "Pills first." She got up to fetch the bottle and a glass of water, and made him take two before she said another word.

Taking up a position at the far end of the sofa, she nudged his thigh with one foot.

Carlton massaged his shoulder carefully. "Rule Two: always assume I'm an idiot."

"No, that is not Rule Two. Rule Two is truth."

"Fine. The truth is, I'm an idiot."

She pushed her foot against his thigh more sharply. "Stop it. Okay, no more rules. Here's the deal. I've known for quite a while that I shouldn't be with Shawn. Maybe no one should be with Shawn, but that's not _my_ problem. My problem is I wanted to be optimistic and hopeful and keep thinking maybe he'd change or that maybe I'd change or that maybe if I just went along, things would sort themselves out, because no relationship is perfect. It's always about balancing the good, the bad, and the ordinary, right?"

He tried not to overtly roll his eyes. "What's ordinary about Spencer?"

"Good point. Anyway, that's why I _stayed_. Or I _hope_ it's why I stayed. If that's not why I stayed, then maybe the truth is _I'm_ the idiot." She raised her hand to forestall his protest. "That's why I took your advice and found my own therapist."

There was no limit to the startling things she could say to him.

"You… you have a therapist?"

"Since the morning after you suggested it."

He studied her, this perceptive and generous-hearted woman, and while he knew she didn't share his opposition to the idea of therapy, it was startling to think she had actually sought it for herself.

"I figured…" she said slowly, her dark blue gaze fixed on him, "I figured if you could do it, so could I."

_Oh._

_Oh, yeah._

_There is that._

In the days to come, he would marvel at how shocked he… _wasn't_. How offended he wasn't. How nervous and uncomfortable and embarrassed he… simply… wasn't.

"I should say I'm sorry I read the file, but I'm not."

Carlton was searching for the best way to reassure her, but he must have been taking too long because she began to look uneasy. He said very quietly, "I'm not either."

Juliet clearly still felt the need to explain. "I wasn't going to, once I realized what it was. Who you were talking to. But then I just couldn't look away, and I _am_ sorry for reading something which was so personal but I'm not sorry I found out."

He was reviewing the timeline in his head, trying to see if she'd given any signs, and still found none. "I figured you either hadn't read it, or wanted to pretend you hadn't."

She went on earnestly, "My doctor kept telling me not to assume. You might not feel the same way anymore. You might have decided to keep the door closed. You might not… still…"

"Love you," he said evenly. "Love you and want you more than anything else in my life. In the world."

_I said it._

Yet for some reason, his heart kept on beating.

Juliet sighed, her eyes misty and her cheeks flushed. "Oh, Carlton, Rule One is going to be so hard."

He felt a ripple of new desire—damn this smashed wing of his—and very nearly asked her to come closer.

"How," he asked, temporarily regaining control of his brain, "did any of this lead to you caring about me?"

"Oh, none of that _led_ to me caring about you. I already cared. I just didn't see it for what it was or what it could be. It was nearly losing you in the woods which showed me I wouldn't ever again be content to stay partners and friends."

Carlton remembered her shaky voice after he was shot. He remembered her coming to him and taking his hand as they carried him off. He remembered feeling like there wasn't anyone else around at all—just the two of them, and what they were to each other.

But still he needed more black and white to break up the gray.

"What _do_ you want to be?"

Juliet tilted her head and gradually smiled.

"I want to be in your lap right now. I want to tell you I love you and know that you accept it and believe it."

His heart skittered again.

Funny thing was, he did accept it. He did believe it. He might not have two weeks ago. But after the woods, after the hospital, after Kate and everything which had passed between them here in his condo—after seeing in her eyes what she didn't feel she could put words to—he did believe.

"Bring it."

She blushed, but wasted no time either; in under five seconds she was straddling his lap and circling his neck with her arms, and into his right ear she whispered, "I love you, Carlton."

Into her right ear, he whispered back, "I love you too, Juliet."

She cupped his face and he kissed her, tasting her lips and welcoming her tongue's explorations. He wished there was some miracle drug to allow him to put both arms around her, but one was all he had.

For now.

Those movements in his lap, though… she was going to have to stop that pretty damned quick.

"Rule One," he growled, trying to hold her still by grasping her hip.

"I don't _like_ Rule One." It was a bit of a whimper, and if anything else, she pressed even closer to him, her thighs insistently tight around his.

"It's a very… _God, _Juliet… important rule…" He threw his head back and Juliet went feasting along his throat, unbuttoning his shirt and nipping at his skin with tongue and teeth.

"But you taste soooo good…." She opened the right side of his shirt and her hot mouth closed around his nipple, and damn if he suddenly wasn't ready to break every rule in every book in every rulebook collection in the universe.

Yeah… and then look Spencer in the eye Monday as if he _hadn't_ spent Saturday schtupping the woman Spencer was technically still involved with?

Or worse, expect Juliet to do the same thing?

"Stop," he groaned, "for the love of God. We have to stop."

"I really don't want to." Hers was a purr, and her hand moving down his bare abdomen toward the waistband of his flannel pants was a red alert that his willpower was at critically low levels.

"Rule _One_." He grasped her shoulder and pushed her to sit up straight. Granted, she was still grinding in his lap, but at least she couldn't kiss him from this distance.

Juliet sighed. "I know."

"And stop that," he warned at her continuing movements.

She reluctantly stilled herself. "May I help you bathe tomorrow?"

Desire spiked to new heights, and for a moment he had no words.

Or breath. Or lungs.

Or brain.

"No." Did he sound strangled? He felt strangled. "Not tomorrow. Or Monday."

Juliet grinned. "Then Tuesday. I'm inking it in."

"Dear God," he whispered, and let her dart close for one last wicked kiss. "Whatever you want. Just get off my lap before I die."

Her smirk was evil, but she complied, clambering back to her end of the sofa. "I meant it, you know."

"Meant what?"

"You taste good. And I love you."

"In that order?"

She laughed. "I like your therapist."

"How do you know?"

"Because he laid all the groundwork for me. You're not fighting this at all. I mean, the idea of _us_."

"I'm on drugs," he reminded her.

"Not flattering, Lassiter." She poked at his thigh with her foot again, and this time he caught it. "Neither is that what you _are_ fighting off pretty well is the wanton lust."

He smiled, slowly rubbing the sole of her foot until she closed her eyes, nearly purring again.

"I'm not fighting the idea of us because I'm not crazy. I've wanted an 'us' for a hell of a long time and because if I've learned anything from Statler it's that I've spent too much time assuming it could never happen."

"Well," she half-sang, her eyes still closed, "it's _happening_…."

Carlton shook his head in wonderment.

He might still call Statler at two a.m. to berate him for that five minutes of terror… but probably not.

Juliet put her right foot against his thigh too, kneading him while he continued to one-handedly massage the other.

"I hate Rule One," he said conversationally, and she laughed.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

"God, no."

"Ohh… please?"

"No. See Rule One."

"It's just sleeping," she cajoled.

"No. You have to be able to say to anyone who asks that we did not sleep together anywhere, share a bed anywhere, or in any way break Rule One, and that goes triple for Spencer."

Juliet sighed. "I know. I'm only teasing. I don't want to put you in that position."

"Don't worry about me; my reputation's already tarnished. I don't want to put _you_ in that position."

There was a faint, sort of bemused smile on her face.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking your reputation's a lot better than you think it is if you're taking the time to think about mine."

"That's a lot of thinking for one sentence," he said soberly.

She gave his thigh a sharp push. "I'm also thinking that you and I have spent more time thinking about each other than Shawn ever spent thinking about anything that wasn't directly related to him or food. Or the eighties."

He wanted to say, _or pineapples and hair care products_, but it was not his place, nor would it ever be, to help her diss the man she'd given the last year-plus of her life to.

Instead he said, "Seriously, though. You love me?"

"Seriously."

"Huh."

Statler was going to be hard-pressed to remain neutral on this one. Of course, that could be fun too.

"Come sit in my lap again," he suggested. "But no squirming this time."

He didn't have to ask her twice.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	16. Chapter 16: It Ends With A Beginning

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[Warning, O Delicate Readers: there's a bit of M for this final chapter.]_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

After dinner on Sunday, Juliet began calling Shawn. She didn't know exactly what time he would get back from Flamenco's Fajita Festival, but surely Gus wouldn't linger too long away from Rachael and Max.

Multiple voicemails and ignored texts later, she called Gus.

… who was already at home, and had been for two hours.

No, he didn't know where Shawn was, but suggested he might be at the Psych office sleeping off a fajita bender.

"It's not the fajitas you have to worry about," he said ominously. "It's the sides. The beans, Jules. The beans and the guacamole."

Juliet really didn't want details. She tossed the phone down on the sofa and went back out onto the patio, where Carlton was dozing in the fading sunlight.

Pausing in the open door, she let her gaze wander his lean frame. They'd had a lovely time in the last twenty-four hours despite a strict observance of Rule One. He was a remarkable kisser, gentle and wicked and tasty, and his breath in her ear and his lips brushing her skin were enough all on their own to make her insane wanting him.

She trembled a little at the realization he'd admitted his love, admitted his therapy, and admitted he was willing to take a chance on the Big Scary. This was a statement of profound trust in her, trust she wasn't sure she deserved but which she would do everything in her power to keep, because no sane woman should pass up a chance to be loved by someone with a heart as deep and private as his.

Late on Saturday evening, he asked her to help him take his arm sling off for awhile. "I want to put both my arms around you." His voice was husky, and his eyes showed his need for her. "Even if it hurts."

It was the best, warmest, most loving—and necessarily gentlest—hug she'd had in her life, surpassing even the one the morning after the clock tower, because this time they were clinging to each other in _mutual_ need.

Later, after leading him to his bedroom and promising not to tempt him (too much), she sat at his side for a long while, stroking his face and hair and kissing him as much as he'd let her (which was a lot, as it turned out). She had whispered, "Do you know how much I trust you?"

He whispered in response, "I feel it."

She kissed his warm mouth, not ready to go to her own room, not ready to be separated from him, even if only by fifteen feet.

"Will you let me sleep here beside you tonight?"

Carlton's smile was slow and knowing. "Sadly, Juliet, there _are_ limits to my trust in both of us."

Juliet couldn't fault him, but Rule One could not be broken.

She really hated Rule One.

Because she really, really wanted to remove all of Carlton's clothing and explore his lean naked body with infinite care. And with her tongue.

So yeah, she hated the very necessary, very important and very frustrating Rule One.

Watching him dozing now, she wondered what it said about her to be so impatient to officially end things with Shawn. She wished she could have her own emergency call with Dr. Gentry.

Carlton must have sensed the scrutiny, because he slowly opened his ocean-blue eyes and turned his black and silver head her way.

"Spencer call yet?" The question was neutral, but she knew full well how ready he was for her to be utterly free and undeniably his.

"Nope." She crossed her arms. "Dodging voicemails and texts. Gus says they got back about four."

"Coward," he said dismissively. "Of course if I were Spencer I'd be in no hurry to lose you either."

She felt pleasantly warm at his certainty. "He lost me a long time ago… at least the real me. That woman who stuck with him isn't who I really am, I hope."

Extending his hand toward her, he said, "Narcissists and con artists are very, very good at keeping people close to them. If you're anything, Juliet, you're a human being with a good heart. Optimistic and loyal."

She sighed. "And crazy-ass in love with you." Advancing, she took his hand, sinking down to sit on the tile floor before kissing his fingertips.

"One of these days," he commented casually, even as he shivered with each kiss, "I'm going to be able to jump up and chase you to the bedroom."

A thrill of desire rippled through her. "You can do that now. I'll just run extremely slowly."

Carlton grinned and was clearly tempted.

But they said it together: "Rule One!"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Monday morning, Carlton refused to let Juliet "help" him wash, but he did agree to her assistance putting his shirt and jacket on. He saw no reason not to be perfectly professional in appearance at either the station for the 'grand viewing' or at the hospital after that.

She had been in to work for a few hours and came back just past ten to be sure his bathing went without incident—though he saw the gleam in her eye and suspected she would be all too willing to _invent_ an incident if necessary.

While she buttoned his shirt—she didn't _have_ to do that, but he didn't mind, since she started at the bottom and kissed a path up his chest as she slowly and maddeningly covered him—he caught sight of their reflections in the mirror, and marveled that less than 48 hours since the great revelation, it already felt perfectly normal/natural/right/perfect for them to be what he knew they were: together.

Forever.

An "us."

Spencer didn't check in with her until nearly ten Sunday night, and it was via text: _sorry I didn't call, I was fajita-compromised, blah blah see you at the station Monday morning_.

Juliet wasn't even upset. Impatient at the waste of time, yes, but not upset. Spencer had done nothing to endear himself to her as the clock silently ticked toward the end of their relationship.

Sitting with Carlton on the sofa at midnight, she'd murmured she was sorry it had come to this, and sorry she wasn't _more_ sorry… and she _was_ sorry. But she wasn't upset.

He hoped it would stay that way for her.

"Baby, you are _hot_," Juliet declared, stepping back.

"You're biased."

She gave him a wicked, wicked smile, and moved closer again to tuck his shirt in for him, the light scent of her perfume filling his senses with most illicit thoughts.

Unfortunately for Carlton's pent-up libido, she spent a _lot_ of time making sure he was tucked in at the front, and just as much time being sure about the back, only not from behind—rather, she pressed to him and slipped her hands around his waist and under his slacks.

"Holy crap," he breathed.

It was the _pressing_ which was nearly his undoing, and she damned well knew it.

"Jacket. Please. Hurry." He sounded strangled again: was it always going to be like this?

Damn, he hoped so.

Juliet looked innocent—belied by the flush in her cheeks and the look of pure want in her eyes—and helped him get the jacket on, followed by the sling.

He'd been moving his arm more, testing the limits of both pain and mobility. He had many good reasons to want to heal as quickly as possible, and one of them was fulfilling a long-held fantasy about having Juliet underneath him, completely naked, and—well, best to relive _that_ daydream later.

Much later.

She'd brought the Crown Vic home, which was easy to get into, but at the station she made him wait in the car while she called Buzz McNab to bring out a wheelchair.

Carlton was outraged. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Oh, shut it. You cannot walk up those steps and all over the station."

"O'Hara, for the last time, I am not an—"

Juliet held her hand up, cutting him off. "Do _not_ say you're not an invalid. Using a wheelchair does not make you an invalid. It simply makes you more comfortable while you're in the station."

"We're only going to be there long enough to watch the damned movie!"

"But there'll be _visiting_, Carlton."

"Visiting?" He was nonplussed. "Who's visiting?"

Now she laughed. "You! Everyone wants to visit with _you_."

He stared at her in consternation.

"Oh, Carlton," she sighed. "I love all the shades of blue in your beautiful eyes, but 'puzzled and annoyed' blue is one of my favorites."

Carlton didn't know whether to huff or laugh or kiss her; the choice was removed when a beaming Buzz appeared with the offending wheelchair.

"You're lucky I love you," he growled before the door opened.

"Yes I am." She was supremely satisfied, and upon reflection, so was he.

It was odd, he realized half an hour later, to be grateful for Spencer's narcissism. After Juliet rolled his grumpy self into the station and attracted the attention of a surprising number of people who were glad to see him, it was a scant few minutes before Spencer couldn't handle that attention not being focused on him. He interrupted, he horned in, he lightly mocked the idea of Carlton being in any way incapacitated (despite the sling and the upraised leg), and had no idea that most of his audience thought he was kind of a jerk. And that included Guster.

Spencer certainly had no clue _Juliet_ thought he was kind of a jerk.

For Carlton, it was obvious in the set of her jaw, the way her arms tightened around her middle, the cool tone in her voice when she interrupted his interruptions.

But then, _he_ knew her. He certainly knew her better than Shawn Spencer did; Spencer was never so oblivious as when he was face-to-face with the people he supposedly knew best—people he arrogantly assumed he already knew everything about.

_You'll miss her, Spencer._

Kate Favor and Chavo strolled in, bearing their own battle scars from the woods.

Kate gave Carlton a polite smile and Juliet a wide berth; Juliet only smiled. Privately, Carlton smiled too: it was damned nice to have a woman feel so possessive of him.

Henry showed up at the same time, and this was _far_ too much attention focused on other people, so Spencer declared it was time to watch his masterpiece, and shooed them all into Karen Vick's office.

Juliet rolled Carlton into the back and took up a seat beside him; Kate sat next to Henry up front and Carlton could tell by the way she was eyeing him that he was next in line to be propositioned. The man could do worse; Kate was much less wing-nutty than Chelsea.

"Ready for this?" Juliet murmured.

He looked at her. "For _this_? After what's happened in the past two weeks?"

Her laughter was quiet. "I withdraw the question."

Spencer gave a long self-congratulatory intro, with Guster nodding at his side, until Henry muttered something about starting the freaking movie already. Guster pressed 'play' on the remote over Spencer's objections, and Woody cracked open his can of soda.

As it unfolded—and irrespective of his chagrin about the stupid bear trap and the stupid tumble down the bank and the stupid delirium-induced speech to the stupid camera while he was wearing that ugly (but yes, very soft and warm) cap, what held his attention was Juliet. Always Juliet.

First, because even in the damp and the muck and the chaos, she was so beautiful. Her eyes—never mind the nice things she said about his—her eyes were huge and expressive and exactly as compelling on the small screen as they would be if he dared turn his head to look into them.

Second, because she was... so... focused on _him_. Her tenderness on the riverbank was evident for all to see, as was her fear when he was missing. His heart skipped a beat (or two) when she declared hotly to Spencer, "_Carlton is _not_ dead. He _can't_ be. I won't let him. Do you understand?_" He didn't know what anyone else saw, but he saw something rather wonderful, something which made him wish she was sitting on his right so he could take her hand even for a moment.

Something which made her reach over then and touch his back, stroking gently; and when he looked at her, a sense of great and all-encompassing love washed over him. He felt as if she knew his every thought, and hoped she knew his.

His world was truly a different place now.

For the first time, it was… _complete_.

When Juliet burst into the cabin after he was shot, he was able to match the _sight_ of her fear and single-minded concern for him to his memory of her shaky voice and grip on his arm as she pleaded with him to talk to her.

Gave him goosebumps, really.

He glanced at her; she half-smiled.

She whispered, "I should be sitting on your right."

Damn her mind-reading abilities. _Thank God for them, too._

He had to give Spencer credit for the music he chose to overlay the final scene: it was an homage to Juliet holding everything together, and a perfect backdrop to her striding across the clearing to take his hand. Not looking at anyone or anything else, she came straight to him and took the hand he held out, and on any other day in any other setting he would never have done so, but that day… he needed to connect with her. It wasn't a conscious need, but rather something so deep and fundamental between them that while he had no specific recollection of choosing to hold out his hand, there was no doubt it was essential.

In point of fact, everything about Juliet O'Hara was essential to him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet pushed Carlton's wheelchair out of Karen's office, leaning in once to whisper "you're still lookin' hot" and making him blush.

They were stopped by Dobson and Miller near Carlton's desk, which he'd demanded to check on to be sure it was precisely where he'd left it, and Juliet—because she knew an opportunity when she saw one—asked the two of them to keep an eye on him a minute while she took care of something.

Carlton started to mutter about stereotypes, and she and the others exchanged smirks before she left them together.

She was able to catch up with Shawn, just barely, before he rounded the corner by Booking. Grabbing firm hold of his arm and dragging him back to the alcove, she backed him up so fast he was sitting on the bench before he even realized who was moving him.

Yet he feigned innocence. Then again, what _didn't_ he feign?

"Jules! Sweetie!"

Standing before him, her arms folded, she couldn't even be angry. "You were going to leave without speaking to me when you knew I've wanted to talk to you since Saturday?"

More innocence. "I was just chasing after Gus for a ride home."

"Funny; I was _sure_ I saw your bike in the lot."

"A lot of Nortons look alike, hon. So what's up? How'd you like the film?"

Juliet sighed and sat beside him. "Look, Shawn…"

But now she was with him, she faltered.

"You saw it, didn't you." His voice was low and his manner suddenly subdued, as if he'd cast off a mask to show the real deal.

"Saw what?"

He fidgeted with the DVD he held. "How you were with him."

She held very still, waiting for some clue in his expression. Shawn wasn't good at being quiet, so it was merely a matter of waiting until he—

"I tried to edit it out." When she didn't answer at once, he went on, "But if I'd done that, half the movie would have been gone. So it ended up being all about you, Jules. You and him."

She felt goosebumps: could Shawn finally have seen something which wasn't about himself?

"And then you practically wouldn't leave the hospital, and now you've basically moved in with him, so what's it mean? I wanted it to be just a… you know, a partnership bond thing." He looked directly at her, half-frustrated, half-sad. "I didn't want you to see it onscreen."

As if she couldn't feel it or know it to be true otherwise?

She put her hand on his forearm gently, and would not lie. "I didn't need to see it there. I already knew it in my heart."

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.

"What I _did_ see in the film was how I was with _you_. I saw how often I was angry, annoyed, frustrated. I saw how often I was exasperated and pissed off. I didn't see… an 'us,' Shawn. I didn't see a couple. I saw a reflection of how things are for us every day when there's no cameras around at all."

Shawn gazed at her again, confused. "I thought we were fine."

Juliet shook her head. "We weren't fine. Honestly, I don't think we were ever going to be fine, and I sometimes think we were never that fine to begin with. We're too different."

"Well, you're certainly nothing like _Lassie_," he said bitterly.

She was about to snap something cold back at him, but calmed herself. "I know you need someone to blame, but it's not Carlton. Even if he moved to Iceland tomorrow, I would still be ending my relationship with you. If not now, then really really soon. The problems we have—even if I'm the only one who sees them as problems—are about _who we are_, and all the ways we just won't ever mesh. You know I care about you and you know I worked hard to adapt to your style."

"Yeah. I know."

"But no more, Shawn. I can't, and it's unfair to give you any hope that I'll change my mind."

He stood up abruptly. "Okay then. No more talking about it. We're done." He looked at her, unsmiling, and for the first time she thought he actually seemed older than his 37 years. "Gonna miss you, Jules."

He strode off before she could rise, and for a moment she considered going after him to utter some platitude about remaining friends, being able to work together.

But distance was better. He needed his own time. She hoped he'd handle it like an adult when they next met, but there was no sense worrying about it right now.

The important thing was: it was over.

The _more_ important thing was the black-and-silver haired man down the hall, the one with the crystal blue lit-from-within eyes. The one who loved her and trusted her and respected her and valued her. The imperfect, cranky, socially awkward and often flat-out rude guy who was, down to his core, decent and loyal and capable of immense love...

… and _hers_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They lunched in the salt-breeze sunshine of a beachfront restaurant—his request, since this was his first time outside for longer than it took to get from hospital or condo to the car and no, he didn't count the patio—and then went to his various appointments at the hospital.

Sent home later with a "you're doing great; now don't screw it up" and a sheaf of papers outlining some simple exercises he could do before his real rehab started next week, Carlton was both tired and not tired at all.

Juliet had told him it was finished with Spencer, for good, for keeps.

She was a touch sad for the end of a what had been a significant, hard-won relationship, but he could tell she was also relieved. They toasted with iced tea, over chips and salsa, by the wide blue ocean—to what was learned from the past, to what they had now, and to what they would make of their chance to be together.

Now he wanted to get home and make love to her before she figured out she was insane to think she'd be better off with _him_.

(He didn't tell her this specifically, but he did say casually that one of the exercises required him to make small circles around a woman's nipple, and she nearly hit another car.)

"Does Karen expect you back this afternoon?"

Juliet had just put the key into his condo door. "Nope."

"So you're at loose ends?"

She pushed open the door and let him enter first. "Actually," she said from behind him, "I expect to be _very_ busy."

He already knew that tone: he'd been hearing its wicked cadence all weekend long.

"Anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, I hope so. I won't enjoy it nearly as much without _your_ personal involvement."

He blinked, turning to face her with desire already racing through his system. "Exactly how in-depth would you like my involvement to be?"

Juliet stepped up to him and caressed his jaw, standing on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "I'd like you in it up to the _hilt_."

Images flooded his mind, and he growled his agreement to this suggestion.

They made it to the bedroom, as fast as he could go, and he sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. Juliet undid his sling, brushing her lips against forehead and cheeks before and after, and then they both got him out of his jacket and shirt.

He looked up at her, heart pounding, as she took off and cast to the floor her jacket and then slowly unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her smooth skin and the satiny bra which he reached up to caress.

Juliet shivered, and so did he.

"New Rule One," she said, bending again to kiss him, trailing her tongue along his lips possessively.

"Name it."

"Do me."

Carlton reached out—less confidently with his left arm, for it ached, but he had loved having both of them around her Saturday night and he would not be denied his chance to hold her now. He encircled her slim waist and kissed the swell of her breasts above the bra, and Juliet got rid of the interfering garment quickly.

She arched against him when his tongue circled her nipple, and he could feel the goosebumps on her back. He was making her feel this way. _He_ was.

While he nibbled, Juliet undid her slacks and pushed them down her hips, and he used his right arm to slide them the rest of the way down her legs, along with her panties, and it took him several seconds—sitting back in awe—to fully accept that his beloved Juliet stood nude and trembling before him.

"You are so beautiful," he said with difficulty, because she took his breath away. "Perfect."

He leaned forward and kissed her navel, and she shivered. He used both hands to caress her; his left hand wasn't even asking his permission as he let it travel slowly across her hip and down her leg.

Juliet grasped his right shoulder for support when he slipped his right hand between her smooth warm thighs, and he lifted his head so she could meet his kiss, almost moaning into it when his fingers moved in the heat of her desire.

"We need to lie down," she gasped, "and you need to be naked."

But he resisted her attempt to make him recline. "Let me finish what I started." On the bed he wouldn't have as much access to her delicious flesh, and he wasn't even done touching her yet.

Her eyes widened and her skin was flushed and she nodded her assent. Putting his left hand on her waist, holding as firmly as his shoulder muscles would allow, he resumed his mission: to use his other hand to explore the secret silkiness of her and to drive her to the first of the many orgasms he intended to bring to his love.

Her trembling was intense and she again gripped his shoulder as her body shuddered with pleasure. Her other hand rested in his hair, sometimes clutching, but he felt no pain as long as his Juliet felt ecstasy.

The bedroom was where he was most confident about women: he had dreamed many times about Juliet here with him, but _having_ her, _feeling_ her, _tasting_ her, _hearing_ her moans… knowing he was the one to cause them, and he was the one she wanted… he was as aroused as she was, and all she'd been able to do so far was kiss him.

When she recovered enough to really look at him, the light in her eyes was almost predatory.

"Lie down," she demanded, the force of it muted somewhat by the words coming out so raggedly, and he did. "Wait," she added. "We need to put your sling back on."

"No sling. Not now." He managed to hoist himself up by the pillows.

"But I might hurt you—"

"You're not going to hurt me," he assured her, although his shoulder was aching from having held her hip before. "I want you too much to have that thing between us right now."

After a brief hesitation, she nodded and climbed up beside him.

That semi-predatory light came back while she unbuckled his belt—caressing the fabric below, touching him and finding out exactly how _much_ he wanted her—and then slowly unzipped him and tugged his slacks and shorts down and away.

Now it was her turn to explore. She straddled his thighs and caressed his chest and arms and stomach; she bent to kiss his flesh the way he'd kissed hers.

Her mouth was heat and seduction and the sight of her nude and graceful body tormenting his was as much of an aphrodisiac as her touches themselves.

He wouldn't last long under her wonderful… studies, and he told her so, and she was incredibly beautiful as she moved up his body and took him in, leaning in to press against his chest and unite them with a kiss as deep as they were connected elsewhere.

Carlton groaned; it was involuntary, and they moved together with the greatest of synchronicity. They kissed hungrily throughout—pausing at times to ride out spasms of pleasure—and Juliet nipped at his skin hard enough to leave marks he'd cherish later.

He gave himself over to her, drawing her closer with both arms and loving the feel of her breasts against his chest. He couldn't kiss her deeply enough; he couldn't taste enough of her; there was so much more to learn—and she moved so utterly wickedly around him that it wasn't much longer before he went over the edge into mindless pleasure.

Mindless.

It seemed to go on forever, one crashing wave of rapture after another.

Juliet settled down against him, stroking his chest as she collected herself. As he tried to remember who he was.

"I love you," she whispered, kissing his sternum.

He caressed her hair—his hand still shaking as the aftershocks died down. "I'm yours forever, Juliet, whether you love me or not."

She lifted her head to see him; her dark blue eyes misty. "But you don't _mind_ if I love you, right?"

"I think I can handle it." He smiled into the kiss she graced him with. "If not, my therapist can probably help me out."

Juliet laughed and kissed him, and when he told her he loved her, she said she'd read something to that effect recently.

"Which is what drove _you_ to a therapist," he suggested.

For that, she slipped her hand between them and tugged a little, demonstrating to both of them that he wasn't entirely sated after all.

"You know," she mused while he shivered, "I was thinking we could do this again, or maybe…"

Carlton gave her a look. "What the hell 'maybe' could _possibly_ be more tempting than making mad passionate love to you again?"

"Prank calls." She rolled off him, giggling, but his right arm was long enough and strong enough to catch hold of her, dragging her back to his side so he could kiss the hell out of her.

"Fiendess," he growled against her throat.

Juliet nipped at his ear in retaliation. "_Your_ fiendess."

"Yeah. Now Rule Two."

"Rule Two?"

"Do _me_."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

On Tuesday morning, Juliet crossed the office to look into the aquarium more closely while Dr. Gentry poured her a cup of coffee.

The blue fish were back together, swimming side by side with languorous ease. "Ever name your fish?"

"No. Would you like to suggest something?"

She smiled, seeing her reflection in the glass—the reflection of a woman who officially had _everything_ now. "Nope."

"You sure? You seem to have an affinity for some of them."

Somehow she couldn't see suggesting he name a fish Carlton. Or Juliet. "I'm sure."

"How are you, Juliet?"

Taking the offered mug and sitting down, she surveyed herself internally. "I am… very, very good."

He sipped his own coffee, already amused. "You're going to tell me about some changes in your circumstances, aren't you?"

Again she smiled. "Dr. Gentry, I would be _delighted_ to tell you about the changes in my circumstances."

He chuckled. "Well, the next fifty minutes are all yours, so let's get started."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton snagged a session with Statler on Tuesday afternoon while Juliet was at work, and used both hands to type despite the deep ache in his shoulder.

_StatlerPsyD: You don't want to hear my dulcet tones over the phone instead?  
__CL: Another time. This session I figured I should pay for.  
__StatlerPsyD: I take it things happened since we last talked.  
__CL: One or two. I'll tell you in a minute, but first there's something you need to know.  
__StatlerPsyD: What's that?  
__CL: After serious contemplation, I've made a decision.  
__StatlerPsyD: Yes?  
__CL: I believe I might like you after all.__  
_

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**F I N**


End file.
